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the12thnightproject · 8 months

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Chapter 14: Midnight Confidences: The middle of the night is the time to exchange stories…are Mitsuhide and Katsu becoming… friends?

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Logline - With Mai, Hideyoshi, and Aki missing, Mitsuhide and Katsuko reluctantly team up. Disguised as a merchant and his concubine, can they outsmart the man known as the God of Deceit?

At some point after we said goodnight however many hours ago, Mitsuhide had changed into a loose night kimono and cleaned the rest of the make-up off his face. There was a fresh bruise on his knuckle - had he gone back out and interrogated the priest? Was that the reason for that bleak expression that had been on his face just a moment ago? Or… there were two bottles of sake on the desk. One was already empty, and the other was halfway gone. “Never mind. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow when you’re sober.”

He easily set the cup down. “I could drink twice this much and remain unaffected.” Hm. Well, that much sake would have me unconscious, but then again, I have zero tolerance and a lower body weight. And it was true that he didn’t appear to be drunk. “What is it?” He indicated the cushion in front of the desk. “I presume this is important.”

“I think it might be.” Too tired to bother to kneel gracefully, I plopped down on the cushion, then shook my head when he pushed the cup of sake toward me. “I can’t. It gives me nightmares. Waking nightmares too. And, I already just had a sleeping one that woke me up.” Ugh. I wasn’t making any sense, was it?

“A nightmare about the priest?” He rubbed his bruised knuckle. “He will no longer be a factor.”

File that one under ‘don’t need any details.’ If the priest was connected to Aki’s or the other disappearances, Mitsuhide would have told me. Probably. “A different nightmare.” One that left phantom splinters under my nails.

“If you’ve come to me to be soothed, I’m flattered.” He looked at my bare feet, then took off his socks and passed them to me. “Don’t protest. I never feel extreme heat or cold.”

I went ahead and put his socks on. They were soft and toasty warm from his feet. Comforting. “Alright. I guess to explain the nightmare, I have to go back and explain why I don’t like boxes.”

“The palanquin.” With perfectly steady hands, he poured himself another cup.

“Yes. Well. About five years ago, someone tried to kill me, or maybe just get rid of me – by locking me in a crate and leaving it in a warehouse.” I felt my stomach clench when I recalled what a stupid kid I had been at the time.

“The warehouse that currently belongs to Shojumaru.” Alright, he was indeed sober enough to follow along.

“Yes – that one. I don’t know if he owned it then though. The crate I was in got hidden under a heavy shipment of western muskets. I couldn’t get enough leverage to move the lid.” As my brain returned to that place and time, I felt cold all over and my fingers were tingling.

“Katsu. Look at me. Breathe.” As directed, I looked up and focused on that amber gaze until I felt steady.

Oh. He had grabbed my hands.

Holding hands with him felt – too intimate - and I let go. Or rather, I pulled away and he allowed it. “While I was in there – before I realized I was trapped - I overheard a conversation between a foreign merchant and a man he called Motonari.”

Mitsuhide’s eyebrow went up. “Five years ago? The only Motonari I can think of who would have been interested in and able to acquire a large shipment of weapons is Mouri Motonari, and he’s been dead for longer than that.”

Not able to reflect the eyebrow back at him, I simply shrugged. “So were Kenshin and Shingen, and they’re still alive.”

“You’re suggesting Mouri Motonari is not dead.” He rubbed his chin. “That’s… possible. The Mouri clan has been rather active of late. However…” He left the sentence hanging, and I mentally filled in the unstated comment that this could have waited until morning.

“The thing is, I think he’s Shojumaru. His voice. It’s been bothering me about him since we met.” Sure, it could have been that the warehouse ghosts were playing on my senses. But the more I thought about it, the more I was sure. “Shojumaru was the man in the warehouse back then. The one that they called Motonari.”

Mitsuhide went completely still. Not in shock, or surprise… more, like deep into thought. “You are certain about this?” He held up his hand over my initial protest. “I do not doubt your story, only what time does to the memory. As you say, it has been five years.”

“Five years of a memory that regularly appears in my nightmares.” Pleasure doing business with ye! “He could not have been aware that I was trapped in there. That was just a coincidence on his side.” Although Iekane had to have known who those guns were going to.

“How did you escape?” Hm. I thought he would be more interested in the Motonari part of it all, and not so curious about my personal experience. “It’s not such an unusual question – someone must have found you, for here you are, sitting with your feet in my socks.”

Uh. Well. This answer was bound to anger him… but I supposed it no longer mattered now that the person who had saved my life was dead. (As far as I knew. Given the Sengoku spontaneous resurrection rate, he could still be around somewhere). “A person heard me yelling later and rescued me.”

“A random passerby to a warehouse that was used by weapons smugglers.” No amount of sake could make that statement less sarcastic. “For if you had been rescued by Aki, you would have mentioned it. And let me digress to remind you that it’s as important to take note of what a person does not say, as it is to listen to what they do. Therefore, the name of your rescuer…?”

“I don’t actually know if those weapons were smuggled. It could have been a legal shipment…” I trailed off in the face of Mitshide’s incredulous look. “It was Kennyo.”

“Ah.” They say a picture is worth a thousand words. So is one ‘ah’ as spoken by Mitsuhide. “The reason for your stubbornness at the beginning of the summer is now revealed. Were you working or him?”

“What? Oh. No. But I felt like I owed him for saving me, and that life debt weighed. And at the time you questioned me, I had no idea that he was anything but a travelling monk.” Ok. No evidence that he was anything more than that.

That explanation prompted of those x-ray looks from him and I once again felt that prickly feeling through my body. It had been on low hum since moving in here with him, and I’d gotten so used to it that it had become no longer noticable. But that look from him brought that feeling back into sharp focus. “Katsuko, you are far too smart to believe that.”

The praise of my intelligence was something I would have to take out and hug to myself later.

My throat was getting dry, almost enough to tempt me to the sake. There was a teapot sitting on the edge of his desk. Mitsuhide nodded at it. “It’s from this morning.” When I shrugged, he poured the dregs of the tea into a sake cup and passed it to me.

Ugh. Yup. Cold. Strong. Worse than Mitsunari’s tea… wait. Huh? Mitsunari who? I shook my head trying to rid myself of that odd thought.

“Kennyo.” Mitsuhide’s prompt was an order.

“He found me, pulled me out, and Aki caught up to us a little while later. Anyway, he took us back to his encampment, found some clothes for me, and… well, he hinted that he might some day come to ask me to repay him, or ask it of Aki.” Ugh. Another tickle in my throat that I suspected was a loose tea leaf. “Forgetting that I had not seen him when I briefly crossed his path that night seemed like a harmless way to repay him.”

“Harmless. Did it occur to you that if we had been able to capture him at that point, then he would not be able to return and ask a favor?” He stared me down for a moment. “Never mind. Sometimes I forget how young you truly are.”

Unlikely he was referring to my biological age, and probably, he was correct. If we compared life experiences, even with the time travel thrown in, I imagined that Mitsuhide’s was longer, fuller, and full of enough angst for three seasons of a K-drama.

“Besides, there were so many people in the woods that night. I figured someone else must have seen him too, and if so, you were bound to figure things out without me.” Whoops, nearly outed Sasuke there. As I wanted to get away from this line of questioning, I asked, “What do you plan to do about Shojumaru? Motonari.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Watch him. See if he makes a mistake. Find out if he has any weaknesses and exploit them. For the moment, de Sousa still seems to be a key here. Hideyoshi met with de Sousa. If I can prove a stronger connection between him and Motonari, it would give me a lever to press. If Motonari is involved, it makes the situation political. They could be hostages instead of slaves. If Motonari has… executed them already… he would have taunted Nobunaga about that.” Aside from the intake of breath on the word ‘execute’ Mitsuhide sounded measured and calm. There was a grim set to lips though, and I was sure that inside, he was anything but calm.

I understood. Hostages were easier to locate than slaves – but the political implications made the situation more desperate. “What are they like?” The question popped out. A personal question, unrelated to our business, or our contract. I wanted the answer anyway. “Lord Hideyoshi and Lady Mai. What are they like?”

Why did I feel the need to move the conversation into personal revelations? I just… possibly was putting off returning to a room that still contained the shadow of a nightmare.

He poured himself another drink, thus finishing that second bottle. “Hideyoshi is Nobunaga’s right hand man. He’s a good man… idealistic… devoted… passionate… honest. An all around pain in the ass.”

The abrupt change in description caught me off guard and I laughed.

Mitsuhide looked up at the sound. “You don’t smile very often.”

Oh God. Please don’t tell me I have resting bitch face. “Um… what? Should I?”

He waved the comment away. “Dear me, no. Not if you don’t feel like it. It wasn’t meant as a criticism. For what is needed, your face is completely appropriate.”

Oh well, yes. Every girl’s dream is to be described as completely appropriate. Not that I care if that is how Mitsuhide sees me. Still. Completely appropriate. I felt like sulking for no good reason. “I don’t trust smilers. The man who tried to kill me was like that.” I pictured Iekane with that ever-present smile and couldn’t hold back a shiver at how badly he had fooled me.

Mitsuhide must have misinterpreted that shiver, for he took off his outer robe and handed it to me. Yeesh. If we stayed up much later, he would be naked.

Which would be bad. Of course. I erased the mental image that was forming in my brain, and simply cuddled myself into that robe. “And… Lady Mai?”

“Completely devoted to Hideyoshi and his dreams. At a look, the two of them can enter a world where they are the only two inhabitants. Hand me that bottle.” He gestured to an unopened bottle of sake that sat at the far edge of the desk.

Really? He had brought out three bottles of sake intending to drink them all? But it wasn’t my place to question his habits, and I doubted this indulgence was normal for him anyway, so whatever he wanted to wallow over, was his business. I gave him the bottle. “It’s nice that they found each other.” Hopefully whether they were, they were being held together… and well, hopefully their relationship wasn’t being used against them.

“He tried not to want her… but with Mai, that’s not possible. He believed that Nobunaga wanted her for himself, and Hideyoshi is nothing if not self-sacrificing. The man would work himself until he dropped from exhaustion if no one stopped him.” A fond smile crept across his face, and suddenly Mitsuhide looked years younger. “And then he would still find time to scold everyone else.”

To be honest it sounded like Mitsuhide and Hideyoshi had a lot in common. Or maybe I was the only person that Mitsuhide had ever scolded. I burrowed deeper into the robe, letting the smells of sandalwood and cinnamon envelope me. At this time, in this hour, they were comforting smells. “Does he scold Mai too?”

“Sometimes. If she works too hard. He can’t help it. It’s in his nature to mother everyone. Though Mai at least can get him to rest.” That smile lingered on his face. It was not his normal smirk or the grin he used when he was teasing me. I don’t think he was looking at anything in the room. Or anyone.

Does he realize that his voice always softens and catches when he mentions her?

Maybe I didn’t want to hear anything about Mai after all. Not from him. It was too late now. He was in a reflective mood now and there was no stopping the flow of words.

“Mai is the most idealistic person you will ever meet. Yet, as she much as passionately despises war, she’ll leap into any fight to defend her friends or an innocent bystander, or… even me.” It sounded like he might have been recalling a specific incident.

“I’m having trouble imagining that you ever needed to be defended.” Or wanted to be for that matter. “Who dared?”

“I dared, in fact. I needed to appear to be working for Kennyo, and I carefully constructed matters to make myself look like a traitor. But Mai cut through the entire charade by refusing to believe I was guilty.” That fond smile again. He had the same note in his voice when talking about her that Sasuke did. “And the evidence of my guilt was overwhelming – I ought to know, I manufactured it myself. With my reputation, it would have been more than enough to condemn me. But she and Hideyoshi never doubted my innocence.”

“Well, to be honest, I would have a hard time accepting your guilt too. I mean, ok, I don’t like you, but anyone with eyes and a logically functioning brain can tell you’re loyal to the Oda.” Even as I said it, I wondered if it was still true that I didn’t like him.

He blinked a couple of times, before that teasing expression reappeared. “What a pity. I believe I have treated you perfectly well. I am a very likeable fellow.”

Nope. Still hate him.

The fifth thing I hate about Mitsuhide – his ego.

“Although I suppose it’s flattering that you too would defend my innocence. Flattering. But foolish.” Whatever funk he had been in seemed to be fading away. He tapped my nose. “Have you forgotten that you’re my prisoner?”

If I were being honest, it had been a fairly benign prison, given that I still figured I could escape if I really needed to. “Don’t worry. I think you’re capable of a great many morally grey things. But in service to a Nobunaga’s cause… not for personal gain.”

Once again he rubbed his thumb across the bruise on his knuckles. “For this cause there must be someone willing to take on the burden of evil. And someone must be the light to my dark. That has always been Hideyoshi. It’s a delicate balance we make up – Nobunaga needs him, his honesty, as much he needs someone to carry out the missions that no one speaks about. Someone to interrogate--” he reached over again and lifted my chin so that I was looking right into those golden eyes. “Is that what this has been? An interrogation? Looking for a weakness in your captor?”

Fighting the urge to jerk away, I forced my eyes to stay on his. “Always.” I just wanted to know more about you. This was not a conversational path I wanted to follow, so I shrugged. “Making conversation. Trying to chase away my own nightmares.”

“Have they been chased?” He let go of me. “For I know that if Hideyoshi were here at this moment, he would tell us both to go to bed now.” It was a dismissal. “And to clean our teeth first.”

I stood up.

He did not.

“He would be correct… in both. You should go to sleep.” I stumbled on trying to figure out if I should call him by name. I never had. “Lord Mitsuhide.”

The eyebrow went up. “Will you escort me to my bed? It’s not too late to renegotiate.” But the words had no bite, and he finally stood up as well.

“To your door.” Somehow it felt like our relationship had shifted. Not as far as to say that we were friends. But past prisoner and keeper. Vassal and lord, I suppose, would be the best way to describe it.

Maybe he had been thinking along the same lines, for he said, “Planning to take on Kyubei’s role?”

He took my arm, out of habit, I think, and I walked him up the stairs. He was completely steady – I supposed he truly did have an enormously high tolerance for alcohol, for the only difference between his behavior tonight and the night he taught me how to pick a lock was a bit more candor in his conversation. Even with that, I imagined that he had only told me things that he was ok with me knowing, things I could have learned on my own.

But I was learning to pick up on what was not said… and though he had not said it, I had discovered that he was in love with Mai.

As promised, I walked him to the doorway of his room and stopped at the threshold. He turned to look at me, playfully tugged on my ponytail, much like a mischievous child would, then without a word, went inside.

I slid shut his door, then returned to my own room, and lit one small lantern to serve as a night light. Tonight I felt I needed it, not only to chase away the shadows of the past, but any odd daydreams for the future.

I had a job to do. Many jobs, it felt like. Too many people had already disappeared. I would not lose myself as well.

Damn it… I forgot to give him his socks and kimono back.

@bestbryn @selenacosmic @lorei-writes @akitsuneswife @tele86 @lyds323

#10things #10 things I hate about mitsuhide #mitsuhide monday #ikemen sengoku #fanfic #mitsuhide akechi #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen fanfic #ao3 link

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littledreamling · 1 year

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About Me (part 2!)

Thank you so much for the tag @mathomhouse-e!! I did this back when it was circulating before but I'm excited to see if my answers have changed since then!

Nickname: Kai or Crow, though I'll respond to anything

Sign: Sagittarius sun, libra moon, scorpio rising (yeah I know)

Height: 5'5" (I've grown an inch! In reality, though, I went to the doctor and got measured for the first time in years, giving me an extra inch to lord over all of my friends who are still 5'4" *cough, cough* @levi1088 and @birdbraintm)

Last thing I googled: oh this could be very embarrassing... oh thank god it's Tom Burke, the reason being that I saw his name in the credits of Mank and recognized it from The Musketeers (fantastic show, everyone should watch it, Tom Burke did an amazing job with Athos' complex character)

Song stuck in my head: Thankfully, I do not have one, probably because it's difficult to have a song stuck in your head when you're actively listening to music... (for anyone wondering, I'm listening to Lightning Crashes by Live, which is a childhood favorite handed down from my parents). I also had Voulez-Vous by ABBA stuck in my head earlier this week because I watched Mamma Mia over the weekend

Number of followers: 429 (I've gained about 40 since the last time I answered this, half of which are from the discord server lmao, I love you all my beloveds <3)

Amount of sleep: Time spent actually asleep? roughly 7 hours, give or take. Time spent laying in bed scrolling through my phone before falling asleep/after wakign up? Far longer, but I refuse to admit how much longer... I'm on break, sue me lmao

Dream job: this hasn't changed: university professor. It's been my dream job every since starting university (with a brief stint where I wanted to be a pilot, though that didn't last long when I realized how expensive getting a pilot's license is and that the only way to get one for free is to join the military...) because it's largely my only career path. As a cellular and molecular biology major, my two paths lie in pharmaceutical labs doing quality control or doing research funded by a university. Of the two, I'll always prefer the latter.

Wearing: This always feels like a main character describing herself in a badly written fanfiction, but here goes: black sweat pants, a grey long-sleeved t-shirt, black socks, and my hair is tied back with a hair tie in the world's smallest ponytail. Nothing fancy to see here. I don't even have my dangly earring in, though I do have my other earrings in (because they never get removed) which consist of a pair of small gauges, a septum ring being used as an earring, and a black industrial bar. I also have my rings and signature necklace, so I guess that counts for something. Idk

Movies/books that summarize you: Last time, I asked my roommate to answer this because she knows me best, but I don't have her here at the moment, so I'll take a stab at it. Where Hope Comes From by Nikita Gill is definitely a strong contender, simply because of the non-toxic positive messages it contains. I particularly enjoyed the book The Genome Odyssey by Euan Angus Ashley as well as Genome by Matt Ridley. Both vastly expanded my horizons in my chosen career path and have pushed me to better understand everything that can be done through the field of genomics. Antigone by... well, Sophocles is my favorite play (sorry Shakespeare, I have to agree with Hob on this one) because everyone talks about loving the way men love, but Antigone shows what it is to love the way women love. I adored it when I first read it at the ripe age of fourteen and I still love it today.

Favorite song: Too many to list. I have a playlist on spotify called Absolute Favorites that is over 7hrs long... If I had to pick, though, I'd say (right now) it's Saviour by George Ezra or Michigan Cherry by River Whyless. I'm not sure they'll stand the test of time to be included in my Absolute Favorites, but they're currently scratching specific itches in my brain and that's enough for now

Favorite instrument: My answer 100% has not changed: church organ, bagpipes, and the harmonica. I have religious trauma, blood that sings for Scotland, and I was raised in the American South. I'm not sure what else you could ever expect of me... I have to add to it, though, for sheer hilarity: the hurdy-gurdy. Tangentially, I love the fiddle and always wanted to learn how to play but never had the time/money to do so.

Aesthetic: I could copy/paste my answer from last time because it hasn't changed. As @the-cloudy-dreamer and I were talking about earlier, roughly 90% of my clothes are black, 7% are grey, and the rest are some variation of other neutral tones. Color and I do not oft get along, so I don't try. My skin is so pale that I could be an Endless sibling and I dress the part lmao

Favorite authors: Neil Gaiman, obviously. My literary tastes, however, rarely fall neatly along the lines of one author; I tend to pick up books as they interest me, not because I know or like the author, which leads to me reading books by wildly various authors and not having any particular favorites.

Random fun fact: I'm never quite sure what to put for questions like this... reading back over my answers from last time (I can lick my elbow, I rode horses for 10+ years, I own far too many tarot decks, and I have blue hair), they seem so surface-level, but they're also deeply intrinsic pieces of me that add up to the greater whole, and I'm not sure if I could fit anything deeper or more meaningful into a tumblr text box. I'm a photographer (or used to be), I'm a trans man (though I'm not out socially), I'm in a sorority (part of the reason why I'm not out socially, though not the entire reason), I have over 700 hours in Animal Crossing... if you want to know anything about me, just ask I guess, I'm an open book!

And because our whole server was tagged in one fell swoop, I have to exit our little bubble so I'm tagging @birdbraintm @levi1088 (my two IRL friends on tumblr), @landwriter @avelera @softest-punk @staroftheendless and @fishfingersandscarves (because it was surprisingly fun to revisit these questions to see how much, or how little, has changed) As always, feel free to ignore a tag! I'm also leaving an open tag: if you see this and want to do it, do it! I'd love to be tagged in it so I can be nosy!

#thanks for the tag!#god I love oversharing #I can't wait to see what everyone else answers for these #I love tag games #they're so much fun #I have so many tags to respond to lmao #dreamling nation rise up!

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nanasparadise · 3 years

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“Your musketeer in a blue tunic” Yan! Polnareff x female reader (musketeer AU)

Hiya everyone! As promised, here is a Yan! Polnareff writing, since he was in the top four of the poll for the special but hasn’t reached the top three. I thought it might be a fun idea to make him a musketeer and now I’ve realised this fic turned out to be low-key a Belle and Gaston situation from Beauty and the Beast lmao. Anyway, there might be historical inaccuracies in the story, I’m sorry for that.

Summary: You’re a farmer woman in 18th century France and a certain musketeer keeps crossing paths with you…

TW: toxic relationship, noncon kiss, low-key harassment, forced marriage, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

Word count: 3900

“Just about half an hour and I’ll be there”, you mumble to yourself.

The pouring rain drenches your whole form, an icy cold having already nested deep in your bones. But you can’t stop now, even if it’s raining cats and dogs. You know you have to arrive to the main market place, which is located a good three hours from the farm you live in. If the wool – which you hope isn’t too wet, knowing the burlap bags aren’t protecting it well from the rain – won’t be sold today, you don’t know how you could afford some bread for your family. You think of your little siblings, how they always stare at you with big eyes, expecting at least some crumbs of stale bread in order to satiate their hunger a bit. Your heart aches painfully at that mental image. No, you’re going to sell the wool at all cost, no matter if it means you get sick due to the weather. You owe it to your loved ones, needing to protect and provide for them as the oldest sibling.

A chilly wind blows intensely into your face, making you shiver even more. Lucky for you, no other person is currently on the road, meaning you’re in safety. You’re aware about how many sketchy men lurk in these streets by the countryside, just waiting for a young woman like yourself to pass by and to do God knows what with her. As a protection measure, you always carry a knife with you, hidden in your boot. Fortunately, you haven’t needed to use it, yet…

Suddenly, you hear the footsteps of a horse approaching you, the characteristic sounds of its hooves drawing closer to you. Your first instinct is to immediately pull out your knife, but you refrain yourself.

“It’s probably just another merchant who wants to go to the market, too”, you think, comforting yourself. And even if that shouldn’t be the case, it would be wiser to take your possible aggressor by surprise with an attack if needed.

The steps are now dangerously close to you, too close for your liking, until they come to a halt. Surprised, you stop your walking as well and look up to the person on the horse. Next to you on his steed is a man around your age, probably a few years older, with peculiar silver hair and bright blue eyes. Through his uniform, consisting of a characteristic blue tunic with a white cross on it, you immediately recognise the stranger as a King’s musketeer. You hastily curtsy and meekly avert your gaze, given that he’s of a higher social rank. Why would a musketeer want from you, a farmer?

“Good day, Monsieur”, you greet the musketeer politely.

“Good day, Mademoiselle”, the stranger answers jovially. “Please forgive my intervention, but what does a young lady like you travel alone on such a dangerous road?”, he asks you, sincere concern marking his voice.

Why would he care? And why would he refer to you as a lady when you’re clearly just a commoner? You get the sudden urge to grab your knife again, but of course your rational brain side hinders you from doing so.

“I’m only going to the market place, good sir. I’d like to sell some wool”, you explain shortly, your eyes still not meeting the stranger’s.

“All alone?”, the Frenchman wonders.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice, Monsieur. My father has to work on the farm and my mother looks after my younger siblings”, you reply truthfully. Honestly, you’d prefer not giving too much information away to the stranger, but lying doesn’t seem like a safe option either.

“I see, Mademoiselle,” the musketeer utters politely, “in that case, I’d be pleased to escort you to the market place. After all, my heart couldn’t handle if something happened to a damsel.”

“Thank you for your generous offer, Monsieur”, you answer civilly, curtsying gracefully again. Though internally, you sigh and roll your eyes at the Frenchman’s words.

“More like his ego couldn’t handle getting rejected by a common woman”, you ponder cynically. You’re about to continue your walking as the stranger stops your action abruptly.

“Wait a moment, Mademoiselle,” he shouted hastily, “I’ll take your bags and settle them on my horse.” The silver-haired man dismounts from his white horse and takes the bags filled with wool from your hands, placing and tying them on the animal’s back.

“You are far too kind, Monsieur”, you say with an overly sweet voice. Lucky for you, the stranger doesn’t seem to notice the hint of sarcasm hidden in your tone. Instead, he smiles brightly at you, revealing a row of impeccable white teeth.

“As a musketeer, it’s my duty to help a lady in need”, he boasts proudly. Again, you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Ah, how rude of me, Mademoiselle, I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Jean-Pierre Polnareff, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”

“Y/N L/N”, you reply meekly.

“What a lovely name, Milady.”

The pair of you have been walking silently side by side for a while. You simply wish to arrive as fast as possible to the market place, wanting to get rid of Polnareff’s present. After some time, the stormy weather has changed into a brighter, more pleasant sky. Though some sun rays peek through the clouds, the cold from the previous rain remains. Upon seeing your slightly quivering form, Polnareff offers you a blanket he has in his supplies with him. Politely, you decline his offer. You certainly don’t want to be more in the debt of such a high ranking man.

“I apologise if this may come across as rude, Mademoiselle Y/N, but I couldn’t help but notice that there isn’t a ring on your finger”, the musketeer suddenly mentions. The hairs on your arms stand up at his observation and you instinctively straighten your back. If Polnareff has seen your discomfort, he still chooses to continue speaking. “And you’ve said previously you’re living with your family on a farm. How come such a fair maiden like you isn’t married yet? I reckon you must have many suitors.” Something about his tone and the dangerous gleam in his blue eyes sets you on edge.

“Oh, I do have had some suitors in the past,” you answer truthfully, but cautiously, “but I’ve chosen to not marry. My family needs me and I don’t wish to let them down.” Polnareff gives you a tender glance, the prying shimmer being replaced with sympathy now.

“Maybe you’ll soon find a wealthy man who’s able to help your family out”, he mumbles softly, though you still could hear his words.

“I’d rather not base my life on such an improbable dream. After all, I’m just a common farmer,” you say, slightly amused. “He doesn’t have a clue how life’s for a commoner, does he?”

“So you’d like to marry? It’s your dream, didn’t you say that, Mademoiselle?”, Polnareff counters, hope swinging in his voice. Why is he hopeful? But you decide to not voice this thought.

“Well, that’s quite a difficult question, Monsieur Polnareff,” you retort, feeling unsure now “it would be the wisest choice for me to marry, but at the moment, I feel content to take care of my family.” For some reason, the musketeer’s face falls at your last sentence. Disappointment takes over it instead, his lips turning into a bitter, thin line.

“Ah, I see”, he replies wearily. You immediately notice the change of atmosphere, though you don’t comment on it. Instead, you two continue strolling in silence.

Eventually, the pair of you arrive at the market place. During your travel, none of you spoke further, the mood being too tense and awkward. You settle your burlap bags on the floor on a free spot after the silver-haired man has removed them from his horse for you.

“My sincerest thanks, Monsieur Polnareff.” You bow politely. Even though your eyes have been trained on the floor for only a matter of seconds, some stealthy thief has been able to snatch one of your bags. Immediately, your head leaps up.

“Hey, this belongs to me! Give it back!”, you scream angrily. You wouldn’t let some trickster take your wool, not after working so hard for your family! You’re ready to run after the knave, but a hand on your forearm hinders you from doing so.

“Let me handle this, Mademoiselle Y/N,” Polnareff says confidently, “you’ll have your merchandise back in no time. Just wait for me here.” Quickly, the musketeer dashes into an alleyway after the thief. Confused, you’re left alone at the market place, the man’s horse being your only companion. A sigh rolls off your lips.

“Guess I’ll have to do what he says if I ever want that wool back”, you exclaim exasperatedly. This is the last thing you’ve needed today. First, you’ve been drenched by the rain, then a weird musketeer has started following you and asking you eerily invasive question and now your precious goods have been stolen. In the meantime, you try your best to sell the remaining wool.

After half an hour, you still haven’t sold any wool at all. Though you were definitely drawing attention on you by shouting out some offers, no one has seemed to be interested yet. No one even cared enough to look towards your direction.

“I guess I’ll just have to stay all day, then”, you think gloomily. From the corner of your eyes, you notice an all too familiar form approaching you, though this time with a bag in his hand.

“Mademoiselle Y/N!”, Polnareff shouts excitedly, “I’ve retrieved your bag from the thief!” A sincere expression of gratitude appears on your face. Yes, the man is more than annoying to you with his clingy behaviour, but at least he was chasing the trickster for you!

“Thank you so much, Monsieur Polnareff!”, you exclaim happily, relieved to have your wool back. Now there’s only the matter of selling it left…

“Of course, nothing to thank for, Mademoiselle! I’d never want to see such a charming lady like you in need.”

Purposefully, you ignore his statement, an awkward feeling bubbling up in you. Instead you’re thanking him again. All the while, the Frenchman keeps staring at you with a look of fondness, a huge and proud smile adorning his face. In his mind, he’s just proven to you how capable he is of taking care of you and your family. How could you refuse him now? He’s literally your knight in shining armour! Or your musketeer in a blue tunic. It doesn’t matter, he’s practically your hero!

Polnareff’s grin only widens at the thought of you swooning over him. The silver-haired man doesn’t know why he feels like this towards you. Maybe it’s because you just looked so pitiful when he saw you on that road, soaking wet from the rain. Maybe it’s his pride that doesn’t let him relent. Maybe it’s the way your eyes sparked with determination and love when you talked about your family. Maybe it’s your radiant atmosphere, which draws him in like a moth. Maybe you’re secretly a witch who put a love spell on his poor self, making him a fool for you after having only met you. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Polnareff quickly stops his pondering. “It’s not of importance,” he muses, “as long as she’ll realise I’m the best choice for her.”

“I see you haven’t sold any of your goods yet”, the musketeer says, trying to sound casually. Though in his thoughts, he already has a plan schemed.

“No, unfortunately not,” you reply, an exasperated sigh following swiftly, “but there’s still some time left until I have to return home. Surely, I’ll be able to sell some.”

“You know, Mademoiselle Y/N, I’d rather not see you standing here all day, maybe even for it to be in vain,” Polnareff utters, concerning coating his voice, “let me help you, I’ll buy the wool.” Your eyes grow big at his proposition. Even though it’s more than a generous offer, especially after all he’s been through for you today, you can’t help but feeling alerted. Why would he go all these lengths for you? He can’t be that kind, there must be something he wants in return.

“You’re far too generous, Monsieur Polnareff. I can’t accept such an offer”, you tell the musketeer, hoping he’ll actually drop his suggestion. But the Frenchman remains stubborn as a mule.

“Ah ah Mademoiselle,” he tuts you condescendingly, “I’m a man of my word. How much would you like? Are two livres enough?”

Your eyes widen so much at his offer, you wouldn’t be surprised if your eyeballs fell out. Two livres? Is that man insane? The wool is hardly five sous worth!

“I think you must have meant two sous, Monsieur Polnareff,” you answer him, still shocked.

“Pas du tout, Mademoiselle. Two livres is what I said and what I meant. Or would you maybe want more?”

Vehemently, you shake your head. Two livres… That would feed your family for at least three months! “No Y/N, you can’t take this offer!” Your thoughts interrupt you suddenly. Not only does your conscience forbid you from doing so, your parents would also wonder where all that money comes from. They might assume you’ve stolen it as no one would believe a stranger to be so kind to just give a random farmer way too much money.

“Monsieur Polnareff,” you try again to change his mind, “I really don’t think you should-“

“Ah, there’s my pouch!”, the silver-haired man exclaims happily, ignoring your previous words. Eagerly, he takes two shiny coins out of it, pressing them in your palm. Admitting your defeat, you curtsy and express your deep gratitude again. Though a small part inside you does enjoy the fact of getting provided for.

After your exchange, Polnareff insisted on bringing you home again. You dislike the idea of him knowing exactly where you live, but that man’s stubbornness and pride is bigger than the Palace of Versailles. Which is why the two of you are walking back to your farm, the wool resting on Polnareff’s horse’s back.

“What are you doing with all the wool, if I may ask?”, you say with a questioning look on your face, “Surely, a musketeer doesn’t need to fabricate his own clothes.” The Frenchman rubs sheepishly behind his neck and offers you a smile.

“Ah Mademoiselle, you see, I might just donate it. I’ve just wanted to help you out, I don’t need it myself.” Even though you still cannot bring yourself to trust him, your heart warms at his statement.

“That’s indeed very noble of you, Monsieur Polnareff”, you reply candidly. The musketeer sends you another bright grin, a subtle blush forming on his pale cheeks.

The sun has begun to set as the two of you arrive on the farm. With a polite curtsy, you’re ready to finally return home, excited to tell your family the good news regarding the money. But Polnareff stops your goodbye. His hand finds its way to your wrist, halting your movement.

“Before we must depart, Mademoiselle Y/N,” he counters hastily, “I’d like to be assured that we’ll meet again soon. I find myself enthralled by your presence.”

Your heart beats faster at his proposition. Suddenly, you realise the dangerous situation you’re in, the big hand capturing your smaller wrist. Could you really deny him without facing consequences? Thoughts like these rush through your head as the man in front of you keeps waiting for your reaction. Still, you’re going to try. If something should happen, you still have your knife with you and your father would surely rush out once he hears your screams.

“Monsieur Polnareff,” you start hesitantly, “I’m deeply flattered by your words. You are truly an admirable and honourable man whose kind actions shall always carry my most sincere gratitude. Though I must admit, I don’t think it would be a wise idea to meet again.” The Frenchman makes a crestfallen face at your words. You feel almost bad for him. “Ah, I think I should explain myself further. Well, Monsieur Polnareff, we are of two different social classes, continuing mingling with me would put a bad reputation on you. I cannot offer you something of interest. Plus, I like staying with my family so far, this is my home.”

“Y/N”, Polnareff whispers affectionately, his thumb rubbing softly on the inside of your wrist. You shoot him a surprised look, confused by him dropping the formal title. If anyone would have heard this, they’d turn it into a scandal.

“I know my offer might appear strange to you, but I wish to marry out of love one day. I’m aware it’s fairly uncommon and even looked upon with scorn to marry below someone’s station, but the matters of the heart outshine the matters of the mind in my case. I have more than enough money, a comfortable estate and an honourable title. So you’re correct by saying you can’t offer me anything. Though you forgot one important thing, dear Y/N: you can offer me companionship, love, a meaningful bond between two souls.” Upon his last sentence, Polnareff tenderly grabs both of your hands in his, admiring how they seem to fit perfectly. Too astounded by his words, you let the man do as he pleases. Quickly, Polnareff catches on with his speech. “Please Y/N, let me see you again. Let me court you properly. I can give you and your family a beautiful life, a life you deserve.” The silver-haired male’s form moves now closer to yours, his blue eyes fixated on your lips. This action breaks you from the spell you’ve been caught in previously as you abruptly rip your hands off his grip and step back.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur Polnareff,” you manage to say, your voice sounding breathless from the adrenaline rushing in your veins, “I don’t think I’m the right woman for you. I do not wish to disappoint you further, that’s why I’m being direct with you. I’m going home now, please do not seek out for me. Have a good evening, Monsieur Polnareff.” You give him one last glance, noting his furious facial expression, before you eventually walk rapidly the path up to your family’s farm.

“I’ll be coming back, Mademoiselle Y/N!”, you hear the musketeer shouting behind you, “I’m not giving up that easily!” His sentences only make you pick up your pace as fear makes itself present in your body. Why couldn’t he just respect your choice? You’re sure there are enough suitable ladies in his rank pining for him, so why would he bother you? Finally, to your happiness, you arrive at the front door. Quickly, you enter your home, locking the door from the inside. Still, it feels as if a pair of blue eyes continues burning holes in your back…

The following month had been both positive and negative. Positive, because your family didn’t need to worry about food thanks to the two livres Polnareff gave you. Negative, because the latter had been true to his word and kept showing up at your place. Every time you told him you won’t change your mind, the musketeer only seemed to be more encouraged to prove you otherwise.

Today isn’t any different. As you make your way to the market to buy some food, you hear the familiar hooves approaching you. Annoyed, you let out a sigh and roll your eyes.

“Bonjour Y/N! What a pleasant day to see you again, mon amour!”, Polnareff exclaims happily while he dismounts from his horse to walk next to you.

“Bonjour Polnareff”, you reply politely. In the meantime, you’ve dropped the titles when you two were alone, not seeing the point of them anymore. Plus, the Frenchman even decides to call you pet names, so why showing him respect?

“Ah, ma puce, no need to be so cold today! After all, I bring some splendid news”, the Frenchman replies excitedly. You eye him suspiciously, brows knitted together. What on earth is he planning now?

“And that would be?”, you answer matter-of-factly. “You’re finally leaving me alone?”

“You see, before I came to meet you, I’ve finally talked with your parents.” At these words, you immediately stop your steps. A feeling of dread emerges in your stomach, making you feel sick.

“Oh no,” you think desperately, “this can’t be good.”

“Very lovely people, indeed. It hurts my feelings knowing you haven’t invited me to them, mon cœur”, Polnareff continues his talk, a hand put on his chest in mock concern.

“And why should I have done such thing?”, you reply coolly, though internally you’re freaking out. You already know you won’t like the answer…

“My dearest, how come you act so cruel? Don’t you think your future husband should see your parents? After all, we’re betrothed now!”

“No”, you retort without thinking. Your palms grow sweaty, a deep fear manifesting in your body. The silver-haired man smirks at your reaction.

“Non? I think your parents disagree with you, ma chérie. In fact, we’ve already picked out a date for the ceremony. Can you believe it? In two months, we’ll be finally one.” Panic overflows your mind, your breathing becoming laboured. How could your parents decide on such a matter behind your bag? After everything you’ve done for your family? Polnareff notices your stress as he softly wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close to his chest. The musketeer tries to comfort you by shushing you and gently brushing over your back, though his actions only fuel your terror. You squirm in his grasp, trying to escape him, escape this situation, but his grip on you only strengthens.

“Let me go!”, you scream all while tears stream down your cheeks, “I don’t want to be with you! Why can’t you just accept that?”

“My little Y/N,” Polnareff mumbles calmly, “if you hadn’t been so stubborn, we could have discussed the wedding plans together. I know you think our union is not favourable, but if even your family agrees to it, it surely can’t be that wrong, hm? You’re so blinded by your little provincial life that you can’t see what’s best for you. And trust me, my dove, I’m the best choice.” The Frenchman grabs your chin, staring lovingly in your by now puffy eyes. “It’s fine if you need some time to realise that. As long as you remain by my side.” With these words, the silver-haired man puts his mouth on yours, his hand now wandering to your cheek. You wriggle harder in his grasp, though your attempts to escape remain futile. Tenderly, Polnareff caresses your face as his lips finally leave yours.

“Je t’aime de tout mon cœur, mon ange*”, he whispers adoringly, pressing your face against his chest again. Your tears smudge the blue fabric of his tunic, your voice hoarse from screaming. And even though you wish this is but a nightmare, you start comprehending you’re truly trapped in Polnareff’s oh so loving arms for the rest of your life.

*former French currency. 2 livres are about 30 euros, which was a lot of money back then

*former French currency. 5 sous are about 3,70 euros, which was still quite some money back in the day

*”I love you with all my heart, my angel”

#JJBA #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #yandere jojo #yandere jjba #yandere x reader #yandere jjba x reader #yandere polnareff #yandere polnareff x reader #minors dni #tw: yandere #tw: arranged marriage #tw: noncon touching

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katsukisbimbo · 4 years

Text

Fight Me

✯ Hashibira Inosuke x Strong! Fem! Reader

✯ genre: crack!!!! kind of strangers-to-friends-to-lovers au? kinda ooc characters but it do be like dat

✯ summary: inosuke likes girls that can put him in his place

✯ wordcount: 2.0k +

note: this was a request by @ahegaoapril sorry if it took me so long to write it!! i had to rewatch some of kny to get the events right but i hope you enjoy!!

- okay so

- you first met tanjirou when you were making your way to the drum house

- you saw that he was a fellow demon slayer so why not stick with each other yknow

- teamwork makes the dream work

- “hi i’m y/l/n y/n!! what’s your name??”

- “i’m kamado tanjirou!! how old are you??” you tell him your age and luckily you guys were close to each other’s ages

- omg!!

- new bffs

- but then you could sense the presence of a demon coming from the box tanjirou was carrying on his back

- and he’s like

- ruh roh

- o.o

- “aHHhsjd you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to!! feel free to tell me whenever you’re ready!!”

- and he’s just uwuing

- because wow you’re so nice

- he’s gonna l o v e being your friend

- on your way up the mountain you see a blonde simp trying to harass a girl into marrying him

- sigh

- simps

- you notice that he’s wearing the demon slayer uniform

- ‘do they accept just anyone in the demon slayers’

- you and tanjirou make your way over to them and try to pull the simp off of the poor girl

- “hEY gEt off hEr rIghT nOw”

- “please marry me i’m so weak please i need you to protect me you’re so beautifu-“

- you grab the weirdo and fling him away from the girl

- she thanks you and starts being the crap out of him and honestly you couldn’t find the kindness in yourself to stop her

- eh

- it ez what it ez

- he goes on crying about how he was weak and how he needed a wife until

- “EHHHHH WHO IS THIS BEAUTY YOU’RE WITH HUH TANJIROU? HUH WHO IS SHE? YOU PUSHED MY FUTURE WIFE AWAY BECAUSE YOU ALREADY HAVE YOUR OWN GSHSJSDJDBX-“

- but before he could go on you shoved him onto the floor making him eat dirt (poor baby)

- time skip becuase zenitsu is too chaotic

- you guys made your way up the mountain

- whew

- you need to work out more

- y/n’s stamina said: no

- after you guys got to the drum house you saw two little kids crying and hugging each other but suddenly a kid fell out the window

- you turned to shield the kids’ eyes so that they wouldn’t be able to see

- you, tanjirou, and zenitsu made your way inside of the house, sensing berko is demons on your way in

- you sadly got seperated from zenitsu and tanjirou

- sigh

- what nOW

- and you suddenly see a fucking guy with a boar mask

- “HAHAAHAHAHSAIAH”

- whAT THE FUCK

- RUN GET OUT OF THERE WHAT IS THAT

- luckily it just breezes past you and goes on a rampage

- ...

- when you got out you saw a beaten up zenitsu shielding tanjirou’s box from the boar mans relentless kicks

- oh no

- you fly into action and kick the shit outta the boar man

- but tanjirou suddenly comes out and yells at you to stop and that demon slayers weren’t allowed to raise their blades against one another

- who said that you were gonna be fighting with swords

- “sTOP Y/N-CHAN YOU’LL GET HURT”

- “IDC BITCH I DIDN’T CHOOSE THE THUG LIFE THE THUG LIFE CHOSE ME”

- “the hate u give little infants fucks everyone” -2pac

- y/n: *proceeds to beat the shit out of the boar dude and successfully knocks him out with one kick to the back of its head”

- ...

- pending....

- loading....

- after inosuke woke up he threatened to beat the shit out of you but you just ignored him and continued to help tanjirou and zenitsu bring the bodies back outside

- after burying everyone, you guys decided to make your way to the wisteria house to get some rest and heal up

- on the way there and during your stay there inosuke wouldn’t leave you the fuck alone

- “hEY YOU FIGHT ME”

- “no”

- “wHY NOT”

- “cuz i’m stronger than you, you’ll just hurt yourself. we’re here to rest”

- cue inosuke screaming and lunging at you

- but nah you weren’t bout it

- you simply side stepped and turned to jump inosuke and pin him down

- “give it up pretty boy”

- *boomboom*

- huh

- what was this

- why did inosuke feel his heart beat a little faster

- what was this feeling

- eh

- he’s probably just hungry

- ...

- you, inosuke, and tanjirou are currently battling the spider dad

- “tANJIROU WHAT IS THAT”

- “i DONT KNOW”

- both tanjirou and inosuke make a move to slash at spider daddy’s arms but they were too tough, you quickly ran towards them successfully slashing the demons right arm

- “hOWD YOU DO THAT?!!!? HIS SKIN WAS SO HARD”

- “and? life is hard, but you get through it”

- wise words by y/l/n y/n

- life do be hard doe

- anyways

- inosuke felt his heart beat a little faster in his chest,,,what did that mean?? is he tired or something?? but why did seeing you cut spider daddy’s arm make his heart go boom boom

- as the battle goes on, tanjirou was yEETED to the next dimension, leaving only you and inosuke to fight against daddy long legs

- “DONT DIE BOTH OF YOU”

- hah as if you’d die without confessing to inosuke

- huh

- wait what

- yOU LIKE INOSUKE

- hehe

- your thoughts are suddenly interrupted when spidaddy suddenly lunges at you but you were luckily able to get out of the way

- “oI PAY ATTENTION”

- “SHUT UP BAKANOSUKE”

- :(

- after some time inosuke was able to slice through arachne daddy’s arms but it suddenly ran away

- “oi inosuke lets go”

- boom boom

- there it was AGAIN

- maybe he needed to see a doctor

- you follow the demon only to see it shedding its skin and regaining its arm back

- what the fuck

- eND ME NOW

- you glance at inosuke but he isn’t budging

- you’re suddenly filled with fear when you realize that inosuke was accepting the fact that he was going to be defeated

- you were about to yell at him until

- “no way am i going to lose. i’m hashibira inosuke of the demon slaying corps!”

- whew

- you let inosuke take the lead as you knew that he was filled with new determination to kill this demon and get you two to safety

- but when the demon got its hands on inosuke you were suddenly filled with an immeasurable amount of rage

- you lunged at the demon and stabbed your blades into both of its shoulders

- it let out a piercing scream as you dig your blades even further into its flesh

- but suddenly a flash and inosuke was on the floor with the demons arms

- you turned your head and saw the water pillar, tomioka giyuu

- “gIyUU-SAN thank god!! could you please finish him off? i need to fix inosuke up” and he just nods at you and gets crack-a-lackin

- he defeats spider daddy in a span of 2 seconds while you and inosuke are mesmerized by his skill and technique

- as he makes his way deeper in the woods he is stopped by inosuke calling out to him

- “HOLD UP FIGHT ME MISMATCHED HAORI”

- and at that point you were too tired and exhausted to listen to inosuke or to baby sit him

- so you knock him out and smile sheepishly at giyuu

- after giyuu left, all the exhaustion seeps into your bones causing you to pass out right on top of inosuke, making you unconsciously snuggle into his chest

- GOSH THATS CUTE

- by the time you wake up you were already at shinobu’s butterfly estate. surprisingly you were the first one up from your friends

- you looked at the bed beside yours and saw that you were in between zenitsu and inosuke

- you slowly slipped out of bed and sat on inosuke’s

- dumbass still had his mask on

- you slowly examine his body to see how his wounds were healing and they were healing pretty well

- you moved your hands to touch his own, feeling how warm and rough they were from long hours of practicing his swordsmanship

- “ehem”

- GEHSJDJ

- you quickly drop inosuke’s hand and turn your head to see a short armed zenitsu smirking at you

- “iTS NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE I WAS JUST WORRIED OK STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT SIMP”

- “hehe you like him don’t you”

- >:)

- “and if i do? what about it?”

- 0o0

- zenitsu didn’t think that you’d actually admit it

- “hey, there’s nothing wrong with liking him. it’s normal. you guys would be cute together”

- “i-i s-shUT UP,,, but thanks zenitsu,,, do you really think he’d like me back though?”

- “of course he does y/n, you’re strong beautiful, intelligent, and skilled! he’d be stupid to not like you”

- aWH

- zenitsu could be really cute sometimes

- but what you two didn’t know was that inosuke was awake the w h o l e time

- and he was BLUSHING so HARD under his mask omg

- ceo of tomatoes

- this was yours and zenitsu’s little secret

- after all of you had healed up you noticed that inosuke was a little clingier towards you

- whenever you guys ate he would give you a piece of HIS tempura and he never does that???

- and whenever you two are sparring he always has this look in his eye, like he was looking at something so precious to him

- eh maybe it was just the lighting

- he wouldn’t have feelings for you

- was what you thought until you overheard the three musketeers talking

- “kentaro,,, is it normal for my heart to go really fast when i see y/n?? she’s really strong and i really like that. i love fighting with her and i wanna be as strong as her. but whenever we fight i get chest pains and my tummy feels weird. am i sick?”

- and zenitsu and tanjirou are just like

- ‘r u an idiot lol’

- but this is inosuke

- “listen inosuke, i think you like y/n,, maybe even love her,,”

- wHA

- bruh you’re being punkd tell the cameras to come out right now

- this has to be a JOKE

- before you could stop yourself your body already made its way into the room they were in and slid the door open

- *bANG*

- and suddenly the three of them are jumping into the air

- but when they see that it’s you, zenitsu and tanjirou make their way out, leaving you and inosuke by yourselves

- “so i hear-“

- “i think i love you”

- what

- the

- fuck

- did he just say he loved you

- or did you have some sort of brain damage

- sOMEONE PAGE SHEPHERD

- “i think you’re really pretty and you’re so strong that you don’t even seem to break a sweat when you kick my ass. i really like fighting with you but when i do,, looking at you makes me feel all weird and tingly”

- 0.0

- you suddenly lunge at inosuke and hug him and he hesitantly puts his arms around you

- “i think i love you too bakanosuke”

- cue tanjirou and zenitsu cheering

- “i still won’t go easy on you when we’re sparring though”

- “good, i don’t want you to”

#kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #demon au #kamado tanjirō #kamado nezuko #inosuke hashibira #inosuke x reader #insouke hashibira x reader #x reader #kny fluff #kny angst #kny imagines #zenitsu agatsuma #kny

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thelittleredheadedmusician · 4 years

Note

Halloween prompt: Alfred is getting increasingly annoyed at whoever is eating the halloween candy. No one will confess. (Bruce is sitting in a corner somewhere with a bag of... [insert Batfamily appropriate candy here])

Three Musketeers

Rating: G 1,844 words Gen AO3

Bristol was technically in Gotham City limits. Though the gilted mansions and private woods with pastures and stables seemed like a whole other world in comparison. The residents liked to think so too, especially because – despite Gotham’s robust public transportation system – it was almost impossible to reach the rich suburb from the city proper. It was because they lived in this separate world that Bristol’s wealthy residents often fought to receive special treatment or even secede from the city all together.

Except when it came to Halloween.

The residents of Bristol were more than happy to hold their trick-or-treat night during the same time as the rest of Gotham. Mostly, because it discouraged the city’s poorer residents from coming out to ask for literal handouts from them. The time it would take to sit in train stations and bus stops to get there ate up a large chunk of trick-or-treat’s two-hour window. And the walk from the last stop and between the houses took up the rest.

Despite all this, many made the trek out to Wayne Manor and its residents always made it well worth the work.

It was known that the Manor didn’t simply give out full-sized candy bars, no, they gave a whole bag of king’s sized bars. And from the entrance way to the ballroom off to the side were decked out and fitted to be a haunted house with games and entertainment and even more snacks. There was no reason to go anywhere else when you went to Wayne Manor.

Except, this year the seemingly endless supply of candy was mysteriously missing in the week leading up to the big night. Which was ironic considering the Manor was populated by detectives.

Alfred was suspicious. And annoyed. But mostly suspicious. He had raised the world’s greatest detective and then helped raise the current world’s greatest detective. In addition to the other seven vigilantes he’d actively cared for over the years. And countless others who hadn’t lived under his roof. Which meant that he was extremely hard to pull something over on. Extremely.

Yet, his stockpile of trick-or-treat candy was gone. Completely. And his list of suspects was long and skilled.

First, was Barbara because he loved the young woman dearly but she was a bit of a chocolate fiend. Also, if he could rule her out then he could enlist her assistance. It was easy enough to make her coffee just the way she liked and message her to come to the kitchen when she was working in the Cave one evening. She was happy enough to come up, thinking it was just for a chat but knowing something was up when Alfred passed her the mug.

They studied each other from across the long wooden table that took up the far side of the kitchen. Alfred sipped his tea from the good china that after the last family debacle was his alone to use. Barbara narrowed her eyes as her glasses slipped down her nose. They were playing a high stakes game of chicken and they both knew it.

Barbara broke first. “Is there something you wanted to talk about, Alfred?” she asked sweetly, setting her coffee down and pushing her glasses back up in the same movement.

“Now that you mention it, yes. I was wondering if you happened to know where my trick-or-treat supply is disappearing to?” Alfred’s lips turned up in kindness, but his eyes were hard and steady as he held her gaze.

An adult, a seasoned crimefighter, an honest to god superhero and yet Barbara wanted to wriggle in her chair, knot her fingers in the hem of her t-shirt, under that look. Pure willpower was the only thing that stopped her. Though it didn’t extend to her mouth. “No, I’ve been out of town most of the week.”

This was true, Alfred knew, but not necessarily an airtight alibi.

“Besides,” Barbara continued, “I have a Costco card. The Birds and I split it. If I wanted to eat a whole bag of candy, I’d just buy my own.”

Alfred nodded, lifting his tea to take another sip. He accepted that answer, she knew better than to lie to him. “In that case, might I enlist your skills to uncover the real culprit?”

This was what Alfred had truly wanted to ask, they both knew, and Barbara smiled in delight at the prospect. “I’d love to.”

The next suspect was Tim. He knew exactly how to cover his tracks and misdirect their attention. Tim was sly, smart, and still technically a teenaged boy so sugar was irresistible. Barbara set the trap, crashing the Batcomputer one afternoon when everyone else was out. This forced Tim up, out of the Cave and to Alfred lying in wait in the kitchen.

Tim had climbed up onto a kitchen chair to get at the stash of poptarts on the top shelf of the cabinet above the stove. Proving that he had means, motive, and a record.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred drawled as he stepped out of the shadows. Bruce had to learn the skill from somewhere.

Startling, Tim whirled around and nearly fell from the chair. Dropping the silver packet in the process. It landed on the tile with a crunch. “Look I need the brain power to get the computer back up,” he said hastily, glancing guiltily between Alfred and the fallen junk food.

“I am not here to reprimand you about the poptarts,” Alfred said and Tim immediately relaxed, shooting him a relieved little grin. “But I may have to reprimand you for sneaking something else,” Alfred continued, causing Tim’s face to fall.

“I swear, I only had the one Monster the other week. And I split it with Kon ‘cause we were trying to keep Bart from drinking it. Me and him on an energy drink bouncing round the Tower is way better than a speedster on an energy drink.” Tim’s eyes were wide and the blood that had drained from his face made the boy almost impossibly paler.

Alfred lifted an eyebrow at the confession. Not what he was looking for but good to know all the same. “And what of the candy for trick-or-treat?”

Tim’s brows drew together in confusion. “Uh, I don’t know? I suggested we get milkyways but if you got snickers again then I’m not going to complain.”

“So, you did not eat the supply?” Alfred confirmed, though the fact that Tim was already feeling guilty and hesitant to lie on top of the fact that he had no idea Alfred had purchased boxes of three musketeers cleared him of the crime.

“No?” Tim shook his head as he shrugged.

Satisfied, Alfred nodded. “Enjoy your poptarts, Master Timothy. I shall be moving them shortly.”

“It wasn’t Jason,” Barbara said over the phone. “I have a couple different angles of him being in Paraguay all last week.”

“I never suspected him to begin with,” Alfred admitted as he pushed the shopping cart, restocking for the big night tomorrow. “He never liked three musketeers. Dark chocolate kit-kats are a separate story.” He smiled at the memory of a young Jason carrying a huge box of the candy bars to drop in the cart during his first Halloween with them.

“Cass and Dick are out too,” she continued. “Cass laughed at me when I even suggested it and then confirmed Dick was telling the truth when I questioned him.”

Alfred hummed. Richard had been his next guess, though he was more likely to take them to hand out while on patrol or pass on to his friends’ children than to eat himself. “Master Damian is innocent as well. He scoffed at the implication he would, quote, ‘stoop so low as to steal candy from children.’ He also vouched for Master Duke and neither were anywhere near the spare pantry recently to begin with.”

“Security cameras confirm that.”

“That leaves Miss Stephanie,” Alfred frowned. Stephanie tended to decline any offers of assistance from the Manor’s residents that weren’t directly related to masked vigilantism. Though she recently had allowed Alfred to slip her gas money when she visited during daylight hours. The thought of her taking the Halloween candy just did not sit right with him. It was almost as impossible to imagine as Damian taking it. Cassandra was more likely to be playing a trick on them all, having hidden it for some soon to be revealed reason. “Are you positive Miss Cassandra is not the culprit?”

Barbara chuckled. “I mean, not really. But at the same time why would she? Though why would Steph either? I don’t think it was either of them but I can vouch for Steph. She hasn’t been anywhere near the Cave or the Manor since last month. What with school she’s been staying close.”

“Which leaves us back to the beginning,” Alfred sighed and got in line. “We could create a sting operation though I’d loathe to lose this supply as well. There’s nearly no candy left in the entire state.”

“That I believe. Alright, I’ve got the feed from the events kitchen running on one of my screens. I’ll keep an eye on it for the rest of the night, see if anyone stupid enough to try it again.”

“Thank you, Miss Barbara. I really appreciate your assistance in this matter,” Alfred told her before exchanging their goodbyes. He had plans for a little stakeout of his own.

Placing the boxes in the spare pantry, Alfred settled himself on a stool next to the industrial fridge in the dark. He typed out a careful message in the family’s groupchat informing them all that the missing candy had been replaced and politely asking that it not disappear again before the next night. They would all be getting ready to go out for the night so there is no doubt they would see it. And he would have plenty of time to wait for them to strike.

Hours later, the family was returning and Alfred was still lying in wait. A creak echoed in from the ballroom where decorations were mostly in place. The light padding of rubber soles on the marble tile came closer and closer. Alfred leant further back into the shadows as the door swung open. He held his breath, waiting as the guilty party walked into the kitchen proper, headed directly towards the pantry. Alfred slipped from his hiding spot, keeping low as he crept around the island to come up behind the culprit.

Alfred contained his gasp of shock and annoyance as he flipped on the light. Forcing the candy thief to whirl on him. “Master Bruce!” Alfred scolded. He hadn’t thought his first charge would do such a thing and hadn’t even considered him as a suspect.

Having the good sense to look ashamed and like a ten-year-old boy again, Bruce offered a wavering grin in apology. “You bought three musketeers,” he said as his only defense.

Alfred frowned as he crossed his arms. “And your penance will be handing them out tomorrow night.”

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celialestial · 4 years

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Okay. Well, if I’m being honest, this episode was not the greatest. This is also the first analysis I’ve made for a show, at least that I’m posting. We’ll see how this goes. Strap in, this is going to be long.

I think we have all learned by now that Jamie-focused episodes are never the strongest. I find it a bit ironic that in a show called Jamie Johnson, the least interesting character is Jamie himself.

We finally saw the end of the, dare I say, idiotic Under-13s subplot. The classic “arguing friends are trapped in a room together until they make-up” trope was used to its, not fullest, but decent potential. The greatest part of this episode was the fact that their eighth-grade drama was resolved; that and the ten seconds of screentime Dillon received. Liam continues to prove that he has still not grown. Here’s my analysis of his development:

[I was going to insert a clever chart of his nonexistent growth, but I’m too lazy, sorry. Here’s a paragraph about it instead:]

Liam needs to learn that manipulating people and pretending to have changed is not maturity, it’s being an asshole. He has a terrible father, that’s true, but Dillon managed to change. Nothing has ever truly been at stake for Liam. He’s been able to lie and manipulate others to get out of all the trouble he’s caused. He was given a second chance to play with the Under-13s and has continued to use those around him in order to seem, I don’t know. Big? Powerful? All he has done is made the Three Musketeers dislike him even more. He has done absolutely nothing to earn their trust. I could go on and on about Liam Simmonds, which I suppose proves he’s an interesting character (that’s more than I can say about some people *cough* Jamie *cough*).

Eric learns that Aisha has feelings for him too. Yay! He also learns that Aisha is much smarter and more mature than him, choosing to step back and give him time to be with his friends. Yay? Freddie has been incredibly weird this season. I can’t tell if he genuinely liked Aisha as more than a friend, or if he thought he was supposed to, given how much Eric liked her. This entire storyline comprised of way too much unnecessary drama. Looking at Instagram comments, however, it seems that it was very popular among younger kids. I suppose I am a bit too old to be criticizing middle school relationship drama in a children’s show. Poor Alba was practically thrown to the dogs in favor of a petty love triangle. All of their problems were wrapped up so neatly, it felt a bit uncomfortable. Like they didn’t deserve this ending.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but something about this episode seemed off. When comparing it to other episodes with similar premises, the lack of emotion and genuineness becomes obvious. Take episode 10, for example, there were many (and I mean many) subplots. It was a little all over the place. And yet, the end of the episode left me feeling bittersweet, intrigued, and wanting more. This episode didn’t do that. I am sick of Jamie’s bullshit and tired of this dumb love triangle. Thankfully, the latter is complete now.

Onto Jamie’s storyline:

1) I told y’all Jetpac11 would be Jethro! These are some big brain hours.

2) This boy is supposed to be the TITLE character. His storyline is meant to be the most in depth, the most interesting, and, above all else, the most entertaining. It is none of those things. The stakes are supposed to be high, and they are, but they don’t feel like it? He supposedly lost his place at Hawkstone over a goddamn video game. Why don’t I feel anything except contempt? If not frustration at Jamie, then frustration at Ian, who I suppose I should be used to by now. Everyone says Jamie should know better than to trust him after all he’s done. That he should just listen to Mike. Obviously that’s true, but Ian was on his side, not the other way around. Ian enabled Jamie and allowed him to make a stupid decision, one that has huge consequences. Ian didn’t tell Jamie to keep playing for his own gain, well, kind of. He let Jamie keep playing because he though it would make him happy and regain his trust. It’s the same reason Mike lied to Hawkstone. Both adults displayed extremely poor judgement, Ian just far more so, as always. I must admit that I have zero interest in video games. I also have zero interest in soccer (or, rather, football). Yet this show keeps me interested in the matches and invested in the characters. They have failed at maintaining my interest in this video gaming storyline. Part of this could be because I find Jamie boring and repetitive, or maybe he simply seems that way due to the plethora of vastly more compelling side characters. All I have learned from this is that Jamie is a pretty terrible friend, a poor judge of character, and impulsive. These are all faults he has had since season 1, except he used to be a genuinely decent friend. He has grown more self-involved and one-sighted (and one-sided, as in one-dimensional, or you could take it literally, seeing as one leg is currently out of commission). I get that he was hit by a car and his leg is broken. He doesn’t see a future in soccer for himself anymore. Mike is right, though, he should be focused on getting better and being able to play again. I don’t even like Mike most of the time -- I honestly find him fairly annoying, although this may be due to the acting -- but he is the only sane one in the Johnson family right now. Both of Jamie’s parents are enabling him and Mike has too, though only for around an episode and a half. I am so happy this storyline will be resolved next week. I am sure we will still be left with a cliffhanger at the end, as with every season.

Dillon also got a bit of screentime in this episode (wow, a whole twenty seconds!). I really do like the way the writers are portraying how conflicted he is. He is torn between living a lie or risking his future as a professional player. I understand why they introduced Elliot. He was Dillon’s first crush and I think he was necessary for Dillon to come to terms with his sexuality. Where they messed up with Elliot, however, is by entirely removing him from the show after he fulfilled his purpose of giving Dillon the strength to come out. Just as @mcustorm said, he was a plot device and it was out of character for him to out Dillon. I could probably write a whole essay about how dirty both Elliot and Kat were done. The only way using exclusively Ruby to further Dillon’s storyline would’ve worked was if they kept the whole “Ruby has a crush on Dillon” thing from season 4. Doing that would likely ruin their entire dynamic as best friends and make things awkward. If they had done that and made, say Harry or Michel his first crush, they wouldn’t need Elliot to be Dillon’s first real crush. Although, Dillon was only around 11 or 12, and most real crushes don’t hit until 13-14, at least in my experience. Also if they had ruined Dillon and Ruby’s dynamic, then Dillon would have no real support system. I can’t really see Ruby abandoning Dillon over this, though, even if she had an unrequited crush.

Next week should wrap up both Jamie’s and Dillon’s storylines. It will also be the final episode of season 5! A lot to look forward to and a lot to be absolutely terrified of, not to mention the fact that season 6 production has been postponed for obvious reasons.

TL;DR:

It’s the end of the Under-13s drama! And possibly the end of Aisha, knowing how JJ deals with its newly irrelevant characters.

Jamie is being stupid and probably lost his chances of getting into Hawkstone. Or maybe not, considering he’s the protagonist of a kid’s show. JJ does have a habit of dealing out real consequences, though, so who knows.

Dillon got... something? He’s feeling conflicted, which is entirely natural, especially at this stage in his coming out.

Next week is the last episode! Stay tuned for more, I guess. Let me know if you guys enjoyed this type of proper analysis.

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iamtaran · 4 years

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Rendezvous* AU

Jaskier is a professional, usually. He had worn out all the rough edges of this particular character over the years until it felt almost more comfortable than returning to being Julian at the end of the week. It may have taken a few years to curb his decidedly modern mouth and gain the respect of his fellow re-enactors, but during the open weekend when the visitors poured in? He was always on pointe. Spending the greater portion of an entire weekend in performance, in character-- it exhilarates him. The joy from the visitors, their laughs and surprise and unprepared blushes when he singles them out for a bit. If he could, he would eat it and live on it forever. Except, well, a man has to eat real food as well, and Jaskier had skipped breakfast in his rush. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. This particular Rendezvous at Alafia River always has more bakers, potato roasters, and poorly disguised Highland Games food carts peddling fish and chips than one could shake a stick at. Jaskier had simply followed his nose. It wouldn’t be a problem... Except the baker is the most attractive man Jaskier has ever clapped eyes on. “Essi, Essi, Essi,” he chants. “Essi, you’ve- I swear, if you don’t turn around-�� “Jaskier, for god’s sake,” Essi hisses, sandwiched between a wooden stall and the shielding curtain of his body where she is attempting to subtly adjust her slipping décolletage. “I’m a little busy.” “Not too busy for this! Essi,” he whines. A hand smacks his arm, hard. “I’m not getting thrown from the Voo over a nip slip you f--forking child,” she grumbles into her cleavage. That adjusted, she nudges his shoulder out of the way. “Now, what are you whining about?” She looks, as usual, gorgeous, even with the momentary fashion crisis. No one looks better in crisp white chemise and dusty rose robe anglaise in linen. Well, except- “Him.” *** (*A Rendezvous is a historical reenactment/ living history event that may last an entire extended weekend, an entire week, 9 days. Participants camp on-site in pre-1860s period clothing, using as much historically accurate gear as possible and disguising any absolutely necessary modern amenities to keep from breaking immersion. Sometimes, the last weekend of the event is open to the public non-participants to wander through, purchase from artisans and craftsmen, often including folks from local tribes, and enjoy the musical or martial performances, historic rifle ranges, archery, delicious food, hatchet throwing, and more. This encounter may or may not be inspired by a memorable Rendezvous encounter as a visitor.)

Jaskier has never in six years seen this particular baker at this particular Rendezvous. Would that I had, he thinks somewhat wildly. It’s not one thing, really, that catches his attention, which sometimes does happen. He has fallen in love with a stranger’s heavy-lidded eyes, or a singular profile, or even the way someone tucked their legs up under them in a library chair. It is the way his pale, silvery hair wisps and half-curls around his face and across his forehead, where heavy brows furrowed in concentration. It is the shocking softness of his mouth compared to the granite cut of his jaw and the roughness of his stubble. It is his hands. Jaskier thinks they might be the most beautiful hands he has ever seen. The strength, the gentleness, the competence with which they folded and kneaded, then with swift, short turns tucked the dough into a boule to add to the nearly filled board behind him. Jaskier isn’t the only one watching. The man, whether it be what Jaskier sees or the smell of his already-baked loaves, has drawn a crowd. (And he really does suspect it is a mixture of both. No one should look so good with the sweaty, unwashed Rendezvous look. Most people look as you might expect after a week-long historical camping trip. This man looks like a rugged wet dream.) Even as Jaskier looks, the baker slices the top of the dough with a slender knife frankly dwarfed in his grip, settles the boule on the board, and with a sharp flick of his elbow slides the whole dozen of them into the mouth of the clay dome oven radiating heat at his back. Even presented with the man’s astonishing back (and astonishing backside, lord, blessed be the fall-front trousers)--even then, Jaskier finds he can’t stop staring at his forearms, revealed by his rolled shirtsleeves. “Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Essi murmurs, and laughs when he jumps. “Well, go on. Go buy your bread and flirt with him. I’m going to get chowder from the fish and chip tent.” “But- Essi,” Jaskier flounders, “we, it- the performance!” They had planned to spend the last couple hours of morning trolling the main drag and the surrounding lines of tents and stalls, singing and playing, he on accordion and she the violin. They even have a couple new bits he is dying to run through. Jaskier thinks of his wallet and all the tips they might be making even now and whines. That being said, his eyes draw back to the dimple along the muscle of the baker’s forearm without his permission. Essi pats his back mockingly. “Frankly, my dear, I refuse to perform with you like this.” “Excuse me! Like what?” She doesn’t deign answer. Instead, with a wink, she steps back into the crowd, calling, “I’ll meet you at the Live Oak Stage for the noontime performances!” and leaves him there. Which is also when Jaskier hears the first keening notes of a familiar song. He already knows he is ruined before turns to take in the scene-- the baker with the fiddle pressed under his chin, the bow so delicate in his blunt-fingered hand that Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat. The angle of his wrist, the tilt of his brows-- then he glances up through unexpectedly dark lashes and his amber eyes flash golden in the light. “Oh, Jesus wept.” *

As it would turn out, the handsome baker’s name is Geralt, and his rendition of Tiersen’s sur le fil is so beautiful that Jaskier can’t help but draw closer, like a moth to flame.

As it also turns out, the baker whose name is Geralt lowers the well-worn but immaculately tuned fiddle after the one song, allowing Jaskier to step close enough to embarrass himself. He gets half way through a too-long ramble about Tiersen’s works and praise for the man’s performance, and I’m a musician myself, can’t often be convinced to pick up a fiddle but-- when the baker grunts, points to the not-exactly historically accurate but not-not period appropriate accordion in his hands and asks, “Do you know La Noyée?” Which is how they end up playing together for the next thirty minutes until the bread has baked.

Which is also when Geralt introduces himself and gruffly thanks him, mentioning how his assistant usually accompanies him but he gave her the morning off, and then pays him in bread with a healthy slab of butter and aged cheese on top. Jaskier learns quickly that he is a man of few words. Somehow, however, he can read the sincerity in his thanks in his minute expression. They had drawn in quite a crowd, and Geralt is quickly made busy on the next batch of orders.

Jaskier knows when his presence is in the way. He is a little sad to go, but still, he knows he will be buzzing with the energy of their performance and the electric current that had passed between them every time Geralt glanced his way to time his accompaniment or signal a flourish. That can be enough. “Well, it’s been- ah, absolutely lovely playing with you, dear Geralt, but it seems I will only be in the way from this point- can’t bake to save my life, I’m afraid-” as he begins to slip away.

“Bard.” Jaskier freezes, surprised. Geralt cleans his hands off on his equally floury apron and pulls a tiny folded up pamphlet from inside its deep pocket. Jaskier takes it without thinking, on autopilot. “I’m part of a demonstration around 2, over at the fencing pit next to the musket range.” Jaskier can’t be blamed for how long it takes his brain to catch up with the unspoken invitation; but when he does, he beams.

He goes, and is promptly bowled over to find Geralt changed from his frankly too-flattering baker’s smock and fall-fronts into the traditional kilt and shirt sleeves of a highland foot soldier-- sans coat. Jaskier sees why when he lunges forward into a fast-paced mock battle with a broad sword that he slings about as if it were light as a rapier. Jaskier is... he needs to sit down.

He spends the rest of the weekend finding every excuse he can to go visit Geralt the too-handsome baker, and gets to meet his apprentice, who is also his daughter. Jaskier is stricken dumb for all of two seconds before he realizes they get on like a house on fire. Geralt has to chase them off when their chatter on historic social norms, musical trends, and current pop stars gets to be too much. Then they both have lunch with Essi, and the conversation turns to hsitoric fashion, materials, and ends with the two ladies roasting his poor man dandy outfit alive. He stands up for himself nobly. The high waisted trousers make him look trim! And braces were designed in the early 1820s, just like the accordion, thank you! Yes, he DOES know that it is considered terribly risque for his braces to be visible and not worn beneath a coat, why do they think he did it? No, he doesn’t think that they clash with his silk cravat in the least! He might be a rake and a rogue but he is still cultured. And well bathed, unlike most of the brutes around here! Essi calls him a floozy; Ciri, 16 and the least shy girl he has ever met, agrees. (He loves the two of them all the more by the end of it.)

Jaskier plays with Geralt a couple more times, after Essi gives him her blessing. She had found a bluegrass group in desperate need of a violinist after theirs abruptly came down ill, and she is more than happy to flirt with their cellist there, especially since they pop up stage in the middle of the Rendyvoo garners huge crowds of tip-happy listeners. She does chat with Ciri when she stops by, however, and Geralt. Jaskier doesn’t hear what happens, but she manages to get the big man to flush. Jaskier wonders on it for the rest of the day. Will she reveal her secrets??

The Voo ends and Jaskier is a besotted wreck. He tries quite hard to make his goodbye to father and daughter not the least bit tearful-- and immediately fails when Geralt pulls out a smartphone and gruffly tells him to put his number in.

They live much closer than they might have assumed. I can’t decide if Geralt really does own a bakery, or if that’s just his somewhat secret hobby and in reality his profession better matches his dangerous strongman persona-- a garage, a historic fencing and swordplay gym, perhaps a high-paid security professional. All of them have some interesting possibilities, I’ll be honest. Regardless, working Rendezvous’s and ren faires is half hobby half side-profession. Jaskier is thrilled to find that, since moving to the area recently, he and Geralt will be working a lot of the same events. He is excited a completely normal amount.

Y’all know what’s up. Wooing. Courting. Two idiots who don’t recognize their emotions (because, yes, Jaskier might have realized Geralt is a looker, but it takes him much longer to realize what the fuzzy feeling in his gut is whenever Geralt is particularly soft, or speaks gently to his daughter, or smile when their huge great dane comes barreling out to greet them and oh, no.) Also, historic costumes that just, they just really inspire some thirst.

If y’all think for a moment Geralt looks any less handsome in modern clothes, you are surely mistaken. Jaskier despairs the first time he sees him. It’s just... it’s not fair!

Except the local ren faire comes around and it’s Geralt’s turn to despair. He may, in fact, never recover. Y’all know that post that’s been going around...

ok fin. that’s all i got, i hope yall enjoyed.

#the witcher #fanfic #geraskier #taran writes #historical reenactment AU #yes there was a real baker who was real handsome #he pulled out the accordion and his assistant the fiddle and played a yann tiersen song i can't remember the name of but recognize every tim #and my gay little heart went OH #do i want to be you or are you just fantastic?#jokes on you baby taran #the answer was both

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see · 4 years

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i got tagged to do this by @bashirs and @konyushy tysm and i’m gonna try to chomp away at this but i’m like a walking corpse rn so let’s see how i do

3 ships: this question kinda sucks because i’m not a very avid shipper but lavashipping, graylu (i’m sorry ik they’re noncanon i’m sorry *i get hit in the head by a rock someone throws at me*) and good ol trusty childhood ship bethan

last song listened to: mash up of nicki’s verse in side to side and captain hook that was on a weird ass like powers au!tiktok before my brain decided to flip the kill switch and i fell asleep for four hours

last movie seen: i wish i had a more interesting answer for this but it was literally the lego ninjago movie. like ik i’m so predicable hahhahahah. i don’t think i’ve seen a new movie as in like. watched a movie i hadn’t seen before in like a year

currently reading: and then there were none by agatha cristie because i bought it from barnes and noble oooo shiny cover now we’re here. i was gonna reread the three musketeers but once again, we’re here

currently watching: Gossip Girl here, your one and only source into the scandalous lives of Manhattan’s elite. (”where is has she been? serena.”) And who am I? That’s one secret I’ll never tell. You know you love me, Gossip Girl

currently craving: any dessert sounds peak rn but that’s about it

i need to tag 9 people but ik this game has been going around for awhile and there’s a good chance that a chunk of my mutuals have already done this so i’m just not going to tag anyone for fear of looking like an idiot. as usual, say i tagged you :)

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bloodfromthethorn · 5 years

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let’s get whumptober started

(seven days late with a starbucks fight me)

Quick explanation: to save time when I have a thousand things in real life to deal with, I’m going to fit all my whumptober fics under the banner of my long-running Agents fic. You can read the whole thing on AO3 if you want, but the shorthand is that it’s the BBC’s Musketeers, in present day and they’re essentially secret agents. It’s a fun sandbox to play in.

Prompts are from the list here and I will try and get through as many as I can before the month’s over.

Prompts: 1 – Shaky hands, 2 – Explosion, 10 – Unconscious, 17 – “Stay with me”

They could have survived the first explosion, Aramis thought with brutal, crystal clarity. It hadn’t been a great experience, sure, but they’d all been more-or-less standing when the building had finally stopped its awful shaking and none of their injuries had seemed that severe. In their line of work, that was basically the best outcome they could possibly have hoped for.

Of course, then came the second explosion.

And the third.

Aramis wasn’t entirely clear on what had happened next, on account of the world disappearing in a flash of white light, but when he’d been back in the driving seat of his own mind he’d been able to piece most of it together. It would seem that the concrete ceiling above them hadn’t been quite as stable as he’d been led to believe; hit with successive explosions, it hadn’t stood a chance. Without any time to react and their only protection the clothes on their back, the four Musketeers caught in the collapse could do little more than close their eyes and pray.

It had worked to a certain extent. Aramis was alive. From shouting and the little radio signal he’d been able to scavenge buried in the depths of a crumbling office block, he knew that d’Artagnan and Athos were both alive and relatively well – Athos was trapped like Aramis was, but was unhurt, and d’Artagnan was free to move with only a concussion to worry about. It wasn’t perfect, by a long stretch, but for three people who had just had a building dropped on their heads, it was very hard to complain about such minor hurts.

Which left Porthos. The same Porthos who was currently cradled in the forgiving curve of Aramis’ lap. The same Porthos who had gone down when the building had and hadn’t come back up. The very same Porthos that Aramis couldn’t bear to lose.

The instant that Aramis had realised he wasn’t alone in his tiny makeshift cave was probably going to be remembered as one of the worst moments of his life. In a single heartbeat he’d taken in the sight of his brother, half-buried under rubble and with a face covered with blood, and known that if Porthos wasn’t making it out of there then neither was he. This man was his brother in every way that mattered, had seen Aramis through the worst and still went to the mat for him time and time again with nary a complaint – Aramis was not leaving him behind. Not ever.

A gut-wrenching few minutes later, and Aramis had established that Porthos was still breathing – thank God – and that the blood was mostly from what looked like a broken nose. There were also at least three ribs cracked, if not broken, and his shoulder was out of joint, but he was alive. He had a chance of making it out of here.

All they had to do was hold it together until d’Artagnan could get help to them.

“Stay with me Porthos,” he murmured into the darkness, well aware that the man couldn’t hear him. Every now and again the rubble would shift with an agonising groan, but otherwise the silence in their little bubble was crushing. “I can’t do this without you.”

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, but Porthos’ breath continued to brush gently against Aramis’ collarbone and that was everything.

“Stay with me,” he whispered again. He ducked his head down to press a kiss into Porthos’ hair as though by sheer will power alone he could breathe life into him. It was a blasphemous thought – only the Lord himself had the power to determine who lived and died and to suggest otherwise was a sin, but for perhaps the first time in his life, Aramis couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He needed Porthos and that was simply a fact of his existence. If the Lord had made him that way, then what else was he to do?

His hands were shaking again, he realised, rattling against where they were wrapped around his brother. Stress, perhaps. Maybe shock, given how battered and bruised his body felt. Now that he really thought about it, in his panic to help Porthos, he’d never turned his attention to his own injuries, even though he was distantly aware that he wasn’t faring too well. He was awake and somewhat mobile, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bleeding internally. Maybe Aramis really was going to die in that pit after all – with his brother beside him, there were worse ways to go out.

‘Porthos would be furious with you for even thinking that,’ a voice in his mind chided. ‘He needs you too.’

“Stay with me.”

His voice was almost gone, carried only on the softest of exhales. It was cold, even with the furnace that was Porthos pressed against him, and he could feel the desire for sleep drawing closer, lulling him deeper. Rationally, he knew he was in trouble and that he really needed to let the others know their situation was deteriorating, but he couldn’t move. Moving meant disturbing Porthos and that wasn’t an option.

“I’m sorry Porthos,” he murmured. “We should never have come here. It was clearly a trap. We should have known better. I’m sorry.”

“No’ your faul’.”

There was an instant of stillness while Aramis’ clouded brain struggled to catch up with the voice that he had definitely just heard coming from the vicinity of his shoulder, then a bolt of lightning raced up his spine. It was only fear for Porthos’ injuries that stopped him from physically jolting upright – instead he had to make do with twisting his neck as far as he could to look at Porthos’ face.

A single dark eye blinked up at him. “’Lo.”

“Porthos?”

The eye blinked again, apparently unwilling to expend the effort it took to talk to elaborate on the fact that he was, indeed, Porthos. Viciously, Aramis yanked his mind back into focus. There was medical training in there somewhere, and he needed it right now more than relief.

“Are you okay? What hurts?”

“Face. Side. ‘S fine though.” No doubt concussed as he was, Porthos’ words were mushy and indistinct, but enough of the meaning was carried over to be worthwhile.

“It is very much not fine,” Aramis snapped, unable to help himself.

Porthos blinked again, letting that pass without further comment before asking quietly, “You hur’?”

The marksman sighed heavily, feeling a thousand years old as relief and fondness washed over him in waves. “No, Porthos, I’m not hurt. I’m doing much better than you as it happens.”

“Good.” That, apparently, was all Porthos needed to hear. He twitched his head down, laying it more comfortably in the curve of Aramis’ shoulders and let his eyes close again.

“Porthos? Porthos, stay with me.”

“I am,” he replied after a few seconds. “Still here, ‘Mis.”

“Good. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Won’."

Aramis forced himself to breathe. They weren’t safe, not at all, but if Porthos was awake and talking then at the very least Aramis wasn’t alone down there and that was a lifeline. d'Artagnan had reached out for help what felt like hours ago – it wouldn’t be long until someone somewhere came up with a plan to get them out, surely. Aramis could hold it together for just a little bit longer. There had never been anything that the pair of them couldn’t face when they were stood side by side and a little collapsed building wasn’t going to be the first.

Against Porthos’ shoulders, his hands finally stopped shaking. “I’ve got you.”

#the musketeers #my fics #whumptober2019 #no.1 #no.2 #no.10 #no.17 #angst

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orionwhispers · 6 years

Text

Tommy’s Girl ♡

(A/N - This is some kind of random pointless drabble that formed after a weird dream type thing I had, basically Michael pining over his cousins girl. It’s probably terrible but I enjoyed writing it, sorry for my absence and DLM will be coming soon, love you guys!!!)

No matter how many cigarettes he smoked, how many fancy suits adorned his skin or the number of shots he downed at the Garrison, Michael had once been Henry, a country boy who rode his bay mare through rolling fields, tended to the vegetable patch and played football with his friends until the apricot sun settled behind the trees. He knew he was destined for a life beyond the country and Birmingham was a chance for an escape and a new beginning, but that didn't stop him from finding solace in something that reminded him of the familiarity and comfort of his upbringing, and that was you, his cousin Tommy’s young wife.

He tried to put on a brave front, but meeting Polly was hard. Abandoning everything he knew for a life in the gloomy streets of Birmingham, immersing himself in the illegal and dangerous business that followed the Shelby family like a black cloud. He admired and respected his cousins immensely, and as much as he longed for the adrenaline and power that came with the Blinders, he couldn’t help feeling like a goldfish amongst Great Whites. That was part of the reason why he became so close to you.

You were soft spoken and kind, but more than capable of holding your own in a family meeting, discussing business as if it was second nature, but maintaining calm and collected against the rivalling voices. He could easily admit that at first he was confused by you, only a handful of years his senior and married to the toughest Gang Leader in England, petite and pretty, like a rose growing amongst a vine of thorns. He soon realised he had deeply underestimated you, knowing to never mistake your kindness for weakness, and quickly learning how you had the ruthless Thomas Shelby wrapped around your finger.

Out of everyone, he found you the easiest to confide in, appreciating your unbiased nature and honest humour, knowing better than anyone the hardships that came with the Shelby’s. Whenever the Blinders had business that an overprotective Tommy or Polly wouldn’t allow either of you to attend, it wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to drink tea in the garden, laughing and sharing stories under the stars.

At first, Polly was delighted. Overjoyed that her son had found someone to confide in, no matter how hard she tried she knew that after all these years things wouldn’t immediately slot back into place, it would take time and patience. Secretly, she was glad he had chosen you to talk to, you and Polly were very close, and she trusted you with her son completely. She knew that the brothers had good intentions, but she believed you were a much better influence. As they days passed into weeks and her beloved son began to settle into the family business and open up more, she started to notice a change.

It started off small. Subtle glances from across the room, the hint of a smile whenever your name was brought up in conversation, lingering touches as you passed him a glass full of whisky that mirrored the deep blush on the apples of his cheeks. She wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it, that unconscious kind of ‘puppy love’ that swept you up out of the blue, she was sure he just liked the attention of a pretty girl, your sweet soul able to make any man weak at the knees, but she knew that it was solely one sided and it made her heart ache. She so badly wanted to tell him to stop, that you were beyond enamoured with your husband, never once glancing at another man in that way, but she had just got him back and she was terrified that any kind of words of warning would push him away.

The night of the bar fight with Isaiah, adrenaline coursing through his freshly battered body, his cousins set the rival pub alight and he slunk through the darkness towards your house.

“It was insane, I’ve never felt anything like it.”

His words tore through the night as you shook your head with reluctant laughter, wiping antiseptic across the cut on his jaw, apologising as he winced at the stinging pain.

“Your mother is going to go bloody mental.”

He shook his head, sparking a new cigarette as you raised a brow at his fresh habit, rolling your eyes and soaking a cotton round in alcohol.

“She’ll be alright.”

You took his head between your palms, inspecting the wounds with curious and careful eyes, completely oblivious to the shocks your touch sent through his skin. You tutted at the flaming lavender bruise forming beneath his eye, careful not to irritate his injuries you met his line of sight.

“You really have to start taking care of yourself, Michael.”

A few hours later, he returned to his mothers house, opening the door as quietly as he could muster but, to no surprise Polly was already curled up in one of the plush armchairs, anxiously awaiting her son’s return. Her first instinct was to question him, especially as she noticed the crimson marks darkening on his face, but most startling to her was the shy secret smile on the edge of his cut lips. It didn’t take her long to put two and two together as she saw the faint reminder of antiseptic cream on his skin, and her overprotective mothering words got caught in her throat, knowing exactly where her son had been. She pulled a faux smile onto her mouth, greeting him as she rang the bell for the maid to make a cup of tea, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. She knew Tommy loved his cousin and herself, but she wasn’t sure how much longer Tom would accept his lovestruck behaviour, when it came to you, Tommy was ruthless.

The business with Campbell and Sabini was occupying most of Tommy’s thoughts, and he had spent the past week or so travelling from Birmingham to London, dealing with whatever situation arose next. As his car bounced along the country roads, as always, his thoughts trailed back to you, thanking God that he had survived another day - and was able to go home to the woman he adored.

Tommy was not oblivious to Michaels infatuation, finding the teens admiration amusing at first. He knew just how easy it was to be enamoured by you, knowing the allure that radiated off your body was just as sweet as the perfume that lingered on your neck. In fact, he found it rather ego boosting, feeding the over possessive side in him as he knew that in a room full of people you would always go to him, and he felt self assured in the fact that the most beautiful girl in the whole of England was safely hanging off his arm.

That didn’t mean that he would ever let it go out of hand, he allowed the glances and sly smiles, the inside jokes and occasional hand brushing when Michael handed you paperwork, but in the end his dominant side always took over. An arm slung around your waist in ownership, his hand covering yours at family dinners, sly teasing kisses over your neck and collarbone at nights in the Garrison. You would always laugh and blush at the affection, knowing how Tommy could get, relishing in the attention, because to you, nothing was out of the ordinary.

The secret competition between the cousins was bubbling like a pot left on high heat, unbeknownst to you. Nobody would admit what was happening, leaving them to their own devices, there were more important things to deal with than their childish game. Neither would ever confirm their thoughts, Tommy remaining the cool and composed Alpha and Michael pretending not to notice his heart clenching as you broke into a wide smile whenever you saw your husband, bliss and unclouded adoration radiating off you.

The high that came with being a newly anointed Peaky Blinder was unmatched to any drug, and the excitement and thrill of the business meant that Michael was temporarily immune to the nagging doubt in his stomach. He had managed to convince himself that the feelings he had for you stemmed from pure friendship, he knew you thought of him as a younger brother and he continually drilled that statement into his head. That didn’t stop him however from spending as much time as possible with you.

With Tommy refusing to allow you to get involved with the current affairs over fears for your safety you spent the majority of your free time with Michael and Isaiah, forming a three musketeers type group, laughing and roaming the city streets like children. Mornings were spent in the crook of his office, perched on the edge of his desk and teasing him, throwing wads of paper from across the room. You’d bound into the Garrison, buying a round to celebrate his first successful week as the official accountant, clinking the glasses together and relishing in the mutual happiness that surrounded you all. All very mundane things, but he couldn’t swallow the thought that seeing you was his favourite part of the day.

Watching you announce yourself as you opened the door of his office, faking irritation as you rifled through his papers, watching the light bounce of your features as you tilted your head, breaking into peals of laughter. Curled up in the armchair in the living room, jotting down numbers, tongue between your lips, slowly meeting his gaze with a sleepy smile, hair messy and tousled. Your nose crinkling and eyes shining as you chuckled at Isaiah’s crude humour, snorting and coughing on your drink as he reached the punchline. It was those moments of solitude that he allowed his mind to wander. He could imagine that the two of you were in a different situation, no ties to the Shelby family, just two friends cherishing each others company. He could imagine how different life would be, imagining all your smiles and kind words were directed and devoted to him solely, rather than your gangster Husband who would most likely pistol whip him for the thoughts that filled his brain.

Reality would always hit though, as the night faded to an ebony black and you drained the last of your glasses, hiccuping from the long gulps of alcohol you had downed. Tendrils of hair failing from your up-do, your drunken eyes matching the glow of the twilight. Isaiah would roll his eyes, holding you close as he lifted up your giggling frame, gesturing to Michael for support.

“C’mon, let’s get you home. I don’t really feel like getting shot by Tommy, he almost had my balls last time and we were only five minutes later than promised!”

He’d plaster on a fake smile as Tommy opened the door, watching as the gangster rolled his ocean eyes with faux annoyance as you clambered into his arms, mumbling drunkly. He’d thank the teens, giving his cousin a small look that contained unspoken communication as he wrapped a strong arm around your shoulder, unable to contain the adoration he held for you in your intoxicated state. He’d return home, climb into bed, thankful for the ambush of sleep that would clear his mind, and the day would restart.

He knew he couldn’t tell you how he really felt and it made him feel sick when he realised that you would never feel the same. He couldn’t help the tug of his heart or the hitch in his breath when he saw you, the envy swimming in his stomach when you kissed Tommy with head spinning passion, but he was trying. Above everything he was grateful for your friendship, still trusting you with his darkest secrets and personal fears, thankful that his hidden feelings hadn’t ruined the bond that you two shared. In a room full of beautiful women his eyes always trailed to you first, watching you captivate everyone around you with just your presence, illuminating the room like a beacon of light. He knew how happy you were though, and that feeling overpowered the others in his mind.

He watched the deadly Thomas Shelby turn from a pit bull into a kitten around you, that kind of dopey love that would usually twist his stomach into a sea of nausea. He was glad you were happy, it radiated and flowed through you every time you were with your husband and despite his inner turmoil, he was glad. One day, perhaps he would find a girl he would love like that, blurring his mind and vision. He would get over you though, fall in love, get married and be happy, but you would always be the first girl that properly broke his heart.

#tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine #michael gray #michael grey imagine #michael gray imagine #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinders #writing #peaky blinders drabble

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nitewrighter · 6 years

Text

Of Blades and Broomsticks pt. XI

Ah! Been a while, huh?

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Witch AU on AO3

---

Junkenstein was biting the inside of his lip bloody, racking his brain as he gingerly worked with what few tools he had on hand on the lightning wheel, applying the black powder here and there, careful, careful. The overturned wagon provding him cover was little more than splinters at this point. The creature let out an animalistic yell that served to both intimidate the guards currently trying to kill it, and indicate its impatience to Junkenstein.

“Will you hold on!?” said Junkenstein as the creature seized a musket from one of the guards and impaled him on his own bayonet before hurling him into the other guards who were furiously trying to reload their own muskets. Musket balls, cannon fire, and arquebuses picked off the zomnics that continued, relentless towards the door. The massive oaken doors of the castle were splintered behind the guards from the Zomnics’ assault, all it needed was one blast, and all Junkenstein needed was a few more seconds.

“Putting off my own dreams to make toys for that jewel encrusted oaf,” muttered Junkenstein, “And for what? To still only be seen as a fool and madman by this whole bloody town? To see my only friend burned as a heretic?”

An angry growl came from the monster, who was at this point using one of the guards as a flail with one arm while firing off one one of their stolen muskets with the other.

“Oh come off it!” Junkenstein shouted at the creature, “Obviously you’re a friend too! You’re just 12 hours old, is all!” He turned his attention back to the wheel, only to have a musketball graze past his head, rendering his world red and white and burning and reeling for a few seconds from the streak of pain that now rendered the side of his head bloody. The creature gave out an animalistic yell and stabbed the guard holding the offending musket in the face with the hook of his sickle as Junkenstein sprawled, delirious over his lightning wheel. The creature let out a furious roar and now tore into the guards attacking it with more bloodlust than ever.

Junkenstein’s world went from white and red to red and black, and he could hear the cries of the guard, the whole world around him muted like it had been placed under a heavy cloth, or like his head was under water. He could hear the roars of his creation, but somewhere, in the distance, there was another sound, another roar, and the din of a crowd. He opened an eye blearily to see the world turned on its side, and then he saw movement, something green in the distance, in the square. Several droplets of blood where obscuring one of the lenses of hes goggles, and he groaned and pulled himself back up to an upright position with the lightning wheel in his lap. He looked and saw, in the distance, as some kind of giant green snake or salamander was flying upward from the smoke in the square. “What in the...?” he pushed his goggles off of his eyes and wiped some blood off his temple and watched as the green ribbon of a creature turned itself in the air. He squinted and saw something on its back, a human figure, clinging to it, with pale gold hair whipping around wildly like a candle flame.

“Gramercy,” he knew it was her. He watched as the long green creature flew off towards the outer walls of the city, “Oh you mad, mad demon,” he murmured, knowing there was no way Genji could hear him, “You got her out.”

The creature twisted in the air as arquebuses started firing off from the city walls and even from the top of the castle.

“Not out,” said Junkenstein, looking down at the wheel in his lap, “Not yet.”

A few last tweaks, a few deft applications of black powder, and Junkenstein drew a breath before hefting up the lightning wheel in his arms. The green creature was distracting them. Giving him an opening. He rose to his feet, staring at the castle.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” He shouted, unable to keep the strange combination of joy and panic from his voice as he slammed the lightning wheel onto the ground, “My latest creation!”

He yanked a chord and suddenly the wheel was hurtling away from him, electricity crackling off it as it careened through the mess of guards attacking his creature, past zomnics being picked off by muskets and arquebuses, and towards the door.

It was supposed to detonate against the door, key word, supposed to. It did not. Instead, when it reached the door, the wheel shot up, vertically up, against the splintered wood of the door, against the stone of the castle, up and up it went. And he could hear the confused cry of one guard on the battlements, “What the hell is--”

The wheel exploded in fire and lightning and Junkenstein whooped at the sight before reeling in a lightheaded haze.

“Back to the castle! Back!” one of the guards shouted, scattering away from Junkenstein’s creation.

“Ha! Take that!” Junkenstein shouted after the guard before swaying and bracing himself against the overturned cart. The creature hurried over to him and stared at the bloodied side of Junkenstein’s head.

“Just a graze...” said Junkenstein, bringing his hand away bloody from the wound, “Though I think I’m going to have a very interesting hairline after this.” He swayed again and the monster easily steadied him with one massive hand on his shoulder.

“We did it,” said Junkenstein, “Gramercy’s out. We---”

There was a clank of metal, the groan of wood, and Junkenstein turned his head to down the hill to see the gate of the bailey opening up and several figures on horses coming through. The guard captain was atop her horse, along with a contingent of the rest of the city guard. He made eye contact with the guard captain, Pharah, and he noticed something terrifying pass over her face. An ‘Oh, of course you’re mixed up in this’ look. A ‘Well it seems you’ve finally given me more than a good enough excuse,’ look. A look that told him, with certainty, that he was going to die here.

“Oh sh--” Junkenstein started and then Pharah let out a cry and she and her riders charged toward them. There was no way out. He knew that. Running toward the castle certainly wasn’t an option, and if they headed back for the catacombs, there were no zomnics left to take the fire, and the remaining guards atop the ramparts would shoot them in the back, and now with the guard captain and their compatriots. Junkenstein gave a look to his creation and the monster looked back at him, gave a resigned grunt, and hoisted up his chained sickle at the ready.

“...so you understand then,” said Junkenstein.

The creature gave an affirmative grunt. Musket balls whizzed past them.

“Oh I’m glad I could die here with you, my creation,” Junkenstein lamented, as the guard captain and her ragged, bloody, and furious compatriots charged at them, “Here at the end of all thi--”

A massive green portal opened beneath them both and they fell through it.

Junkenstein found himself stretching and twisting and distorting and tumbling through a vivid psychadelic vortex of green and black and violet. He was screaming and screaming and screaming until he gave a glance to his side to see Zenyatta calmly sitting (or floating) next to him, alongside a figure who seemed to be woman shaped but was covered in scales. Oh, thought Junkenstein, Right. Squid-Face. The plan.

---

“No--No!” Mercy stumbled to her knees next to Genji and grabbed his shoulder, turning him over. He flinched beneath her touch, before one red eye flicked and saw her through the half shattered mask and he seemed to ease up slightly as she looked at the still blazing white wound in his shoulder. He groaned a little. She sighed with relief that he was still alive.

“Well... now that you’re not thrashing about as much--I can get it out--” Mercy started but there was suddenly a terrifyingly loud crack and instinctively she ducked over Genji to protect him as lightning struck the ground of the pumpkin patch only a few feet away from them. A light drizzle started as Mercy rose up from Genji and looked over her shoulder to see a blue-gray-skinned figure with lightning-white eyes.

“Brother--” the word escaped Genji in a wince as Hanzo stepped toward them.

“What have you done?” said Hanzo.

“I--He was only rescuing me--The witch hunter--” Mercy started before Hanzo picked her up by the neck and easily held her at arms length, her bare feet dangling beneath her as her blazing wings beat the air uselessly.

“No!” Genji moved to try and get up, but his shoulder blazed and he let out a roar of pain as his mask crumbled off of his face and red streaks started forming out from his eyes.

“This is what comes of meddling with humans, brother,” said Hanzo, “You disgrace your kind and court disaster by doing such. I’ve come to take you home.”

“We were humans once---Ngh!” Genji suddenly contorted on the ground, gripping his shoulder as the red spread from his temples and eyes and the corners of his mouth. He coughed up blood.

“Genji--!” Mercy was clawing at Hanzo’s hand around her neck, trying to pry her fingers beneath his as she kicked at him uselessly.

“We are far from that now,” said Hanzo.

“Let me go!” Mercy beat a fist against his forearm, “Let me help him!”

“You?” Said Hanzo, “What could you possibly---?”

Mercy meant to slap or claw for his face, but instead what happened next was a bright plume of flame burst out from her hand and hit Hanzo full on in the chest. His grip broke away from her neck as the force of the blast sent him tumbling back and crashing into a pile of pumpkins. Mercy dropped to the ground and scrambled over to Genji, whose groans were turning into snarls and whose teeth were turning into fangs.

“That was a mistake,” Hanzo spoke behind her. Mercy turned and looked over her shoulder at Hanzo, who was peeling a stringy bit of pumpkin rind off of his white tunic. Genji let out a roar which turned into a cry and gripped his shoulder as his fingernails grew long and black. “Step away from him, before he kills you” said Hanzo. Mercy looked up from Genji to his brother. “He swore to protect you,” Hanzo’s brow furrowed, “I will not let him break such an oath.”

“I can help him--” Mercy said, only partially sure she could.

“Can you?” said Hanzo, “You, the human who got him into this mess to begin with?”

“The wound he has---It needs magic that predates the church,” Mercy said, “I was granted---”

“I saw the results of your magic. A city burns in your wake and a wretched monster made by clumsy and ignorant human hands walk the earth. Do you think I would let either fate befall my brother?”

“...A what?” said Mercy. Her face suddenly lit up. “Wait--So Jameson finally---”

“I think now would be prudent to remind you that while my brother is sworn not to harm you, I am not bound by such an oath,” with a sweeping motion of an arm he formed a bow of lightning and took aim at her. A sphere of fire curled in Mercy’s hand as she faced Hanzo, hearing Genji’s growls and snarls behind her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Mercy, rising to her feet with wings blazing.

“I’m not the one you should be worried ab---” Hanzo started when a green portal suddenly opened next to him, “What--?” A massive corpse-green fist suddenly collided with his face, then another blast of fire from the portal sent him tumbling back. Mercy watched as Satya, Junkenstein and his monster, and Zenyatta burst out from the green portal. A bright flame was still in Satya’s hand, which she kept extended toward Hanzo.

“Jameson! You’re alive!” said Mercy.

“Well of course!” said Junkenstein, throwing his arms up at her, “Who do you think would come up with such an ingenious plan for your rescue--”

Genji let out a terrifying roar at this point, and Mercy couldn’t help but flinch back from him.

“Oh dear...” Zenyatta floated over, “This isn’t good.”

“He’s changing,” said Mercy as Genji contorted on the ground, green sparks running over his body.

“His body is taking its true form to buy itself time,” said Zenyatta, “Whatever is in that wound in his shoulder, you have to get it out and quickly.”

There was a crackle of electricity behind Zenyatta and he turned to see Hanzo.

“You...” Hanzo spoke, white electricity sparking off of his body, “My brother’s dear ‘teacher,’ don’t think you’re free of blame in this as well.”

“You think a bit too highly of your own abilities, demon,” said Satya, stepping between Zenyatta and Hanzo.

“I don’t fear forgotten gods,” said Hanzo, firing off an arrow of lightning and forcing Satya to bring up a massive wall of flames to stop it.

“...You need to go,” said Zenyatta, looking at Mercy.

“Here,” with a wave of her free arm, Satya opened another portal, this one fiery rather than green, next to Mercy and Genji, “There is a place where your magic is strong enough to save him.”

“Come with me,” said Mercy.

“Save your demon, Gramercy,” said Junkenstein, stepping alongside Zenyatta, “We can handle one more fight,” he elbowed his monster, “Can’t we?”

“Thank you,” said Mercy. She took Genji’s arm, a blurring shifting thing obscured by lightning and shadows, and heaved it over her shoulder. He was heavy and getting heavier, but with a grunt and her help he was hauled to his feet. With that, Mercy and Genji leapt through the portal. With a flick of her wrist, Satya closed the portal behind them.

“Be on your guard, mortal,” she said, looking over to Junkenstein as she brought down the wall of flames.

“Don’t you worry about me,” said Junkenstein, “There’s four of us, one of him, and I’ve handled more than my fair share of lightning. What’s the worst he could throw at us?”

With a cry Hanzo threw one arm up to the sky and two massive columns of lightning shot down from the clouds above, arcing and braiding around each other and shaping themselves into two roaring, crackling dragons. They roiled around him, snarling at the four of them.

“...I should probably stop saying things like that what with you lot all having magic, shouldn’t I?” said Junkenstein.

---

There were only a few seconds of Mercy and Genji traveling through what felt like a tunnel of vivid multicolored flames before the world seemed to open up to them again and they found themselves dropping onto a stone floor. Genji slipped from Mercy’s grasp in their tumble and landed on the ground with a grunt, his body now completely consumed by black smoke and green lightning. Mercy looked around, the fire of her wings and the sparks coming off Genji illuminating the space they were in. She knew this place. She raised her arms and with a breath and gesture, sent out numerous licks of flame from her wings, lighting torches in sconces and candles, further lighting up the cave chamber. She saw bones on the floor, and a mural on a wall of flowstone of a figure with citrine eyes glinting in the light of the flames. She turned her head to see a figure on the floor, clothes now rotted away, little more than yellowed bones at this point, but positioned in a way she could recognize it instantly. The old woman. This was the place where the old woman had passed the flame down to her and breathed fire down her throat.

“Magic’s stronger here,” Mercy said to herself, as she had said those years ago when the old woman had given her gift. She heard a growl behind her, turned on her heel to Genji, and her hand went over her mouth.

The black smoke was clearing away and, rather than the lean and muscular Genji she had known all this time lying there on the cave floor there was a hulking red beast etched by numerous scars. He had tripled in size, at least, a mass of sinewy muscles and brick-red skin. Massive white fangs thrust themselves out both from the top and bottom at the corners of his mouth, a thick mane of hair surged out from his head like black flames, two golden horns curved up from his hairline, and long claws raked the stone of the cave as he let out a groan of pain.

“Genji...” she said his name and his head jerked toward her, his eyes no longer red but a glowing yellow. He gripped his shoulder and scrambled back from her, backing up against a cave wall. She noticed his legs didn’t really position themselves like human legs anymore---still no cloven hooves, but his feet had elongated and sprung long claws themselves, and he stood on tiptoes with his shin bones shortened, not unlike a cat or a hound. She held her arms out in front of herself. “It’s me,” she said, “It’s me--You need to let me help you.”

He lifted his head at her and his yellow eyes studied her, one clawed hand still over the wound on his shoulder. He let out a half snarl half-huff and looked down, not meeting her eyes.

Mercy sighed and stepped forward, slowly so as not to startle him. “I figured a shape-shifter would be making himself more handsome to suit his own tastes... as far as true forms go,” she extended a hand toward the hand over his wound, “This isn’t so bad.”

Genji flinched his wound away from her and let out a roar inches from her face, the blast of his breath blowing her hair back and his roar filling her world and making her ears ring and leaving flicks of spittle all over her face and neck. He sustained the roar for several seconds until she suddenly found herself seizing two handfuls of the black hair streaming over his shoulders, giving them a yank to force his eyes to look into her own, and shouting “HEY!” right in his face. The fury of her motion cut his roar short and she glared at him right in those yellow eyes. “Genji,” she said, seething, “I have been sleeping on a cold stone floor in a nasty little cell for three nights, I have been interrogated for a gift which I have only ever used to help people, had my very existence condemned by the church, I’ve been beaten, nearly burned alive, choked out and nearly obliterated by your brother, and now,” she gave her two handfuls of his hair a slight yank for emphasis, “I am trying to keep you from dying. Can you please let me do that?”

Genji blinked his yellow eyes at her blankly, apparently used to most cowering away from this form, and he dropped his hand from over his wound. Mercy released his hair. “Thank you,” she said, dusting her hands off as best she could on her tunic. The wound was much larger now than before, still blazing white.

“This is going to hurt,” said Mercy. She did her best to make her hand as small as possible before slipping her fingers into the wound. Genji let out a roar which fell away into wincing, flinching whimpers. “It’s fine,” said Mercy, “This is fine. You’re doing fine--” she said as his blood surged from the wound, soaking her undyed shift. With his larger size though, the wound had stretched out. It was easier to get through and her hand touched upon something hard and still unusually cold within the wound. Her fingers found their way around the little metal ball, and with a grunt she yanked it out, sending a new surge of his blood onto herself as she did so. She dropped it to the ground before trying to put pressure on Genji’s bleeding wound, but only seeing his blood surge up between her thin fingers. Genji’s breath was ragged.

“I’ve got you,” she said, “I’ve got you---”

She had to stop the bleeding--with what, a poultice? She didn’t have time to run off and find the herbs. She glanced over to the yellowed bones of the old woman, where a knife of black glass still lay at her side. A lick of flame from the forge of creation, she thought, remembering the sight of the cut on her hand closing in the flames. She broke away from Genji and hurried over to the skeleton, picking up the knife at its side. He instinctively shrunk away from the sight of her with a knife. “Genji,” she said, walking back to him, “I... I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Genji kept a steady yellow gaze on her, then grunted in surprise as she ran the knife of black glass along her palm, marking a line of light that made fiery blood run down her palm. She brought her palm to her lips and took a mouthful of her own blood, feeling it burning on her tongue and pursing her lips, before dropping the knife to her side, placing her bleeding hand over Genji’s wound. Genji winced at the heat on his wound with a sharp breath, then seemed to ease slightly as if the pain was receding, then Mercy placed her uncut hand on the side of his face. She wove her hand into his thick mane of black hair and gently pulled him forward to her level, then brought her lips to his. He startled slightly at the passage of her blood from her mouth to his, but didn’t break away. Her blazing wings shrank as she kept her mouth on his, pushing her blood past her lips. He swallowed as she pulled away, wiping her own blood from her lips with one fiery trickle running down from the corner of her mouth, still keeping her hand on his wound. He was still staring at her as she pulled her hand away.

The wound had stopped bleeding.

It suddenly lit up, the lines of white fire that had webbed out from it now yellow and Genji let out a ragged exhale that turned into a roar grunt as a bright yellow blaze issued from it for a few seconds before stopping altogether leaving only a large scar on his shoulder. He was panting now and looked with some wonder at the scar.

“There,” said Mercy, just as surprised it had worked as he was, “You see? I told you, you could trust me...” The wings blazing from her back had been shrinking, and were now only two faint lights streaming out from her shoulder blades. She swayed and Genji’s hand flew out and gripped her shoulder to keep her from collapsing. “Thank you,” said Mercy, her own vision dimming at the peripheries, “We... we need to... get... get back to the others,” she was trying to summon her thoughts to outrun her exhaustion, but using her magic in such a way had made everything catch up with her--Nearly being burned, bringing Satya to this plane, tumbling out of the sky, the confrontation with Hanzo--She looked up at Genji’s face and saw the exhaustion from his own injuries overtaking him as well. “We can’t rest yet,” she said, as if that would somehow will life back into her own muscles and his, “We can’t...”

“Mm,” Genji gave an affirmative grunt, but then started slumping forward.

“Genji--” Mercy started, “Wait--Don’t--”

The massive red Oni collapsed on top of her. She wasn’t sure if it was his impact that made her finally surrender to unconsciousness, or the impact of the cave floor, but she fell into darkness then, and, seeing as there was no alternative, accepted it.

#gency #Witch Mercy AU

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thedaughterofkings · 6 years

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tagged by @clotpolesonly again, thank you, Jessica!! Last sentence tag

“This is a gift I cannot thank you enough for and a debt I can never repay.”

WHAT IS YOUR TOTAL WORD COUNT ON AO3?

203.791 words

HOW OFTEN DO YOU WRITE?

As often as I can? I’ve been pretty good about writing regularly this year, trying to squeeze out at least a few words every day, though there’ve been week long holes where I didn’t write anything (because of holidays or just because). This month has been terrible writing-wise so far, but it’s not over yet and all in all I’m pretty happy with how this year has been going writing-wise!

DO YOU HAVE A ROUTINE FOR WRITING?

Not particularly, no. I’ve got an hour long train ride to uni, so when classes are on I often get quite a bit written on the journey there and back again (or at least on one trip^^°). I also often find myself writing late at night, in bed - I’m not sure how good that is for my grammar, though! Other than that I write when free time and inspiration match up (for once).

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE KINKS/TROPES/PAIRING?

My favourite ships are definitely Sterek and Merthur, both when writing and reading. I’ve also written some Stisaac, Stoyd, and Stackson plus a smattering of fics for other ships (mostly for prompts people sent me). I still want to write a proper Drarry fic one day!! That ship is high on the favourite ships to read list, too, along with Wincest and Spirk. I also sometimes get these reading crazes, like earlier this year I only read 00Q fics for a few weeks?! But really, I’ve read TONS of ships, it’d take way too long to list them all here (but I’m happy to talk about them in more depth if there’s any interest in that :p).

As for tropes - GIMME ALL THE TROPES!!! I adore my tropes, both the straightforward ones and the ones turned on their heads! I am a sucker for pining, cannot get enough of soulmate AUs, Harry Potter AUs, and just a long list of other AUs :p For Sterek Neckz’n’Throats is a definite favourite, along with BAMF!Stiles and Spark!Stiles, for Merthur it’s modernRoyalty and royal!Merlin (send me links, people!!!) and probably a ton more that I can’t think of right now :p Writing wise I love a soulmate AU, and I used to write mostly meet-cutes. Nowadays it’s more lengthy pining and misunderstandings fics^^°

Finally - kinks! The most explicit thing I’ve written so far was some clothed rubbing off on each other, so yeah, not much to say writing-wise^^° And for reading it just depends on the author! If you give me a well written kink, I’ll probably like it! Generally there’s rather a list of kinks I don’t like rather than kinks I like? (though even that can be challenged when written well - I’m really not into water sports, but one fic managed to portray golden showers of all things as very emotional and touching) I do like a well written BDSM fic, but I’m very picky about those, and who can spend any time in Teen Wolf fandom without developing a fondness for knotting?^^

DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE FIC OF YOURS?

Mmhmm, not the one single fic that stands out, but I can perhaps narrow it down to a favourite per ship?

Starting with the easier bit, my favourite Stisaac fic is definitely Aunt Mable doesn’t count. That one is just perfectly fun and cute, I think^^.

For Stoyd, it’s a tie between Queen Maeve and Pas de Deux. Queen Maeve was my first time writing an established relationship rather than them getting together and I’m still really proud of how that relationship is the driving force of the fic rather than any external antagonist or the like. And in Pas de Deux I got to write Stiles and Boyd dancing Ballet and I really like how that came out, plus how their relationship progresses in that fic.

For Stackson it’s always going to be Pigtails (at least until I’ve written the sequels :p). This fic was my way of figuring out how those two could fit together and I just really love how it turned out.

With Merthur it becomes hard already - I love both Homebound and through this life and into the next (this is a marriage of equals) for different reasons. Homebound allowed to work through some issues with Merlin and Arthur’s relationship and the things they said and didn’t say to each other, and through this life and into the next (this is a marriage of equals) just has all the lovely tropes - arranged marriage, misunderstandings, pining, magic reveal, druid!Merlin, snarky Kilgharrah.^^ But if I have to decide on one of my shorter ones, my favourite is the best thing since Anne McCaffrey, because it’s adorable if I may say so myself! :p

And now, finally: Sterek! How could I ever decide?? I still love Of dogs and deer darcy, my first Soulmark fic, and also very much Fully grown which was written for the same prompt but turned out completely different! (those two are also my most successful fics by far, so perhaps I should write more soulmark AUs?) I love my fairy tale reimaginations (Rose and Thorn, to live happily ever after (a tale of sparks and wolves) and The Waterline Divides Us) and my Solstice Sterekzine alien!Stiles fic Constellations. And finally, even if apparently no one agrees, I love the only lonely boy in New York - come on, guys, how can you resist angsty musician Derek writing songs about his feelings!!! There’s pining and misunderstandings and love confessions through songs and dramatic reunions!!!! Give it a chance :D

YOUR FIC WITH THE MOST KUDOS?

Fully grown recently overtook Of dogs and deer darcy

ANYTHING YOU DON’T LIKE ABOUT YOUR WRITING?

Everything and nothing? It’s hard to pin it down - if I could easily do that, I could fix it! Writing process-wise I wish I’d not be as obsessed with getting every detail right (especially frustrating for teen wolf, where I don’t just have to fix my own mistakes, but all the inconsistencies canon has left us to deal with). It can really hold me back, because I’ll feel like I have to figure out the timeline or the motivation of the villain or the way the fight can logically go first before I can write anything! On the other hand, details are important in writing and I have gotten compliments on how everything fit together so perfectly, so there’s that!

NOW SOMETHING YOU DO LIKE (ABOUT YOUR WRITING)?

That’s even harder! I can’t think of anything right now, which is terrible because I do like my writing! Honestly, though, I’d much rather hear what you guys like about my writing (if anyone is still reading this), so if you can think of anything, please let me know!

First ship you ever read fic for:

Finally an easy question again! Drarry! Back during one of those long waits for the next Harry Potter novel I was trying to look something up and stumbled across this strange story, written in the world of Harry Potter, and after like 50k, Draco came out of the Forbidden Forest and he and Harry embraced and kissed and I was like - huh? I guess that works? And that was my first foray into fanfiction and I never looked back!

First ship you ever wrote fic for:

I wrote some fix-it fic for Fred’s death after the deathly hallows, but that never saw the light of day and I’m no longer sure how shippy it was. The first ship I ever wrote and published fic for was Sterek!

Ship you write the most now:

Sterek, without a doubt

Ship you read the most now:

That always depends on my current mood, but over all, the answer is still Sterek

Newest ship:

Like, properly, “reading a lot of fic for”? Probably 00Q, though that’s from the beginning of the year, where I had a phase which has since stopped again^^°

Rare ship you want to read more of:

For Clara and myself: Eowyn/Aragorn (we’ve dubbed them Arawyn, the long forgotten musketeer :p)

Your taboo ship:

I’ve got a few incest ships and not just in the badwrong way, so those? (because dammit, wincest are canonically soulmates!!!)

They never met in canon ship:

Laura/Lydia? (and if we go back to my Harry Potter days there’s a few more there :p)

Your unexpected ship:

Let’s go with Kradam (Kris Allen and Adam Lambert from American Idol once upon a time). I haven’t seen a single episode (nevermind season) of American Idol and I fell in love with them purely through fics (I blame Jerakeenc).

The ship you always forget to give love to:

Stoyd probably - I’ve been meaning to write an arranged marriage royalty AU for years!

Ship your OC with a canon character (if applicable):

I don’t really have many OCs, certainly not ones I ship with anyone! I tend to go for canon characters instead - it’s more limiting in a way, but also fun to figure out who might fit which story/character best and how they have to change to fit etc.

A ship you’re embarrassed to ship:

Ship and let ship! I’m not super loud about some of my ships, but that doesn’t mean I’m embarrassed about them! Like, I’ll freely admit I ship incest and rpf ships...

Your most romantic ship:

Sterek!!!!

Your sexiest ship:

Stoyd is the only one I’ve written anything resembling a sex scene for so far, so it’ll have to be that one!

Your most tragic ship:

There’s no other possible answer but Merthur here!!! The neck stroking, the forehead touch, the just hold me, the PAIN, THE TEARS

A ship you want more content for:

eeeeeeeevery ship!!! No really, write, art, create for the ships you love, people, whatever that might be! I mean, we have almost 55k Sterek stories on AO3 (wooh!!) and I still want more! It doesn’t matter how much or little there is already, I promise there’s someone out there who’ll want more of it :D

I’ve apparently used up all of my brain power of the day for this and can’t think of anyone to tag, so I’m tagging all of you - if you’d like to ramble about your writing, go ahead! (And I’ll repeat my plea from earlier - I’d love to hear what you like about my writing!)

#lessa says #lessa plays tag games #lessa rambles for far too long #sorry guys #lessa talks writing

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wordsaremybestfriends · 6 years

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Didn’t Ask For This: Chapter 2

Hey friends! Here’s a chapter as long as my current list of responsibilities that I am always avoiding. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Cursing, child abuse, vocal abuse, violence, *TELL ME IF YOU FIND ANYTHING ELSE*

**something went wonky when i copied and pasted it here, so i apologize in advance for any errors!

The sound of a key scratching it’s way into the lock instantly perked Dustin up. His sister’s mostly exhausted form slumped through the front door, her characteristic purple and gray cardigan slightly falling off her shoulders, and her bag dragging behind her. The jeans she was wearing were smeared with ink and her brunette curls were mostly falling out of her bun atop her head. With a tired sigh, she noticed Dustin sitting on the couch, obviously waiting for her return home. A groan escaped her lips as she shuffled inside, locking the door behind her. “Dusty, it’s midnight. You should be in bed, you’ve got school tomorrow.”

“I know, I know, but Em, I found something while I was out trick-or-treating-”

“How was that?” She asked, a smile on her face. She let her exhausted body slip onto the couch beside him, tossing her feet onto his lap. “Did you get a lot of three musketeers?”

He shook his head, the curls bouncing atop his head. “Yes, but that’s besides the point! I found something in the trash, and I don’t know what it is, and I want you to help me!”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Dustin, I just spent six hours in a silent library reading about the left and right brain. My fingers are covered with glue from trying to repair old books, and I think my head might explode in the next five minutes if I don’t take a shower and sleep. Can’t it wait till the morning?”

“You are not going to want to wait until morning,” Her younger brother said, tossing her feet away to stand off the couch. “Please Emma, it’ll only take five minutes!”

Her brown eyes locked on her brother’s, and instead of the typical toothless smile he had mostly grown up with, his eyes were sad and lip jutted out. The pure pitiful look of him was enough to make Emma’s heart fall. He was her weakness, and he knew it.

“Well…” She murmured. “Let me shower first, okay? I smell like Mrs. White’s old perfume.”

“Perfect!” The boy almost shouted as he ran into his room, slamming the door shut. It was a miracle their mother hadn’t woken up yet, but Emma could do without her mother’s prying questions tonight.

Only twenty minutes had passed before Emma emerged from the bathroom, hair clean and skin moisturized. She wore an oversized shirt from a thrift store run a few months ago, with a pair of long pajama pants. With her rambunctious brunette waves tied in a bun atop her head, she knocked on Dustin’s door quietly.

As soon as the door opened, her younger brother started spouting out words like ‘amphibian’ and ‘reptilian’, latching his mostly sweaty hand onto his older sister’s arm, pulling her through the doorway, and straight into his bedroom, where his terrarium was empty, the turtle he had taken care of missing. Instead, a small, slug-like creature was in it’s place, hiding underneath a small overhang of fake rock. An empty three musketeers was a few inches in front of him, void of any crumbs.

It didn’t look normal, with it’s odd, closed-flower like face and slippery body. There were no eyes on it’s body, and though it was only a few inches big, it seemed to be ferociously upset by Emma’s presence.

“Where the hell did you find this??” She asked, pressing her face to the glass, the slug-like creature hissing and growling at her. “It looks insanely different than anything in Hawkins, or North America-” “Or Africa, or Europe!” Dustin exclaimed, pulling out an old book on different reptiles that he had stolen from Emma’s bookshelf. “I’ve already looked up a dozen different kinds of species, and Dart doesn’t match any of them.”

“You named him Dart?” Emma deadpanned, studying the hissing creature silently. “I feel like he looks more like a Jeffrey, to be honest.”

Dustin frowned, rolling his eyes. “When you find a new species, you can name them whatever you want.”

He approached the glass, catching the small creature’s attention. It instantly calmed, and cooed quietly. The heat lamp had been turned off and shrouded the entire glass tank in darkness. Gently, Dustin reached in to grab him. Emma’s hand shot out, stopping him instead, a frightened look in her eyes. “Dusty, we don’t know what this even is! We shouldn’t be touching it, let alone trying to keep it in this tank!”

“It’s fine,” Her brother replied, reaching in the last few inches and gently picking up the slug, still cooing quietly. “He likes me, cause I rescued him. And he likes nougat, so that’s cool.”

Without the glass barrier, Emma looked at the creature, it’s slimy skin reminiscent of a certain being that she hadn’t seen in about a year. The curiously flower-like head of the slug was opened slightly, and a fear started to grow in the pit of her stomach as she noticed the similarities of the gray, green and brown being.

“You know, it kinda looks like a demogorgon…” She murmured, staring a bit closer at the slug that was relaxing easily in her brother’s palm. “I mean, a baby one, but still.”

“There are no more demogorgons, Em,” He said with a roll of his eyes. “El took them back to the upside down when she left us.”

“I don’t know!” She shrugged, straightening her back. “It doesn’t look like a regular animal from here, it looks… different.”

The two fell into a shared silence, watching the slug breathe slowly, until Dustin slowly pushed it off his hand and back into the tank, and replaced the lid. Emma watched him warily as he washed his hands, and started to put away some of the books he borrowed, until a thought came to her mind.

“We never really know what’s going on in that lab anymore,” Emma mumbled as she gazed at the slug. “I mean, if they’re trying to go back in there…”

The siblings shared a look of unease as the October winds blew outside, sounding more like a howl than a scream now. The story that had started last year might have ended back then, but both knew that there was a deeper idea, a stronger plan in the works, and the sheer thought of it starting over again brought a new gloom upon their small town. And not just a frightening one this time. It was an evil one.

The silent alarm Emma woke to the next morning was somehow the start to one of the worst four hours past her usual morning, bringing her awake to the bright red number of 10:45.

“Shit, shit, shit!!!” She screeched through the empty house, as she jolted herself out of bed, murmuring quickly to herself.

Thanks to her exhaustion last night from the library and Dustin’s new pet, her fingers had accidentally forgot to press the button that would set off her alarm. She had slept straight through two class, and about half of third period. If she hurried, she might just make it by the tail end of class, able to disappear into the fray of students trying to make it to class on time. With her scooter, she’d be able to make it to school quick enough and head straight to the office, if she didn’t get pulled over by Hopper because she was trying to rival the speed of light instead of following the speed limit.

Her hair was wildly untamed, half in a bun on the top of her head and half falling out against her neck. She wore a grey top and a pair of tight jeans, throwing on a cardigan and jacket over the top before rushing to the kitchen to grab the lunch her mother had made, and straight out the door.

Thankfully, the janitors were cleaning up the glass at the front entrance, and she could easily bolt through the doors like a bullet, headed straight for her locker. She had already missed calculus and government and politics as well as trigonometry. If she hurried, she could make it to English only a little bit late, even though Mr. Murphy loved her work no matter what.

“Lady Macbeth makes everything go wrong,” She murmured to herself as she jogged through the halls, her locker close. “Then Lord Macbeth went to go duel the guy and he lost, so they lost everything, and basically it’s…”

Her words trailed off as she found Steve Harrington, the king of the school and head of the popular crowd, pushing his newest flavor of the week against her locker, a blonde girl a few inches taller than Emma, with a shirt barely long enough to cover her ass, and enough Lip-Smackers stuck in her pocket to qualify as a shareholder. It was Natalie Green, a sophomore who had gone starry eyed for Steve since the first day of school. She’d heard through the grapevine that the two were hooking up, though it didn’t matter much to her. Their utterly revolting snogging was an even worse beginning to her day. His hands were God knows where, and another pair were on his ass, fingers delicately slipping through the jean waistband.

She wanted to vomit.

“Hey!” She yelled, and suddenly, the two figures darted away from each other.

Of course, except for the fact that Steve’s hand had still been stuck up the girl’s shirt, gripping her overly padded bra with eyes wide in embarrassment.

“Fuck,” Steve said, pulling his hand out of the powder pink shirt and wiping it against his own jeans. His cheeks were bright pink, and lips swollen, but Emma wasn’t sure if it was from the kissing or the strawberry-flavored lip gloss that was all over their faces. Natalie wasn’t much better, pale face holding at least six different shades of scarlet as she tried to quell her breathing.

“You couldn’t have gone to the library?” Emma asked aloud as she went to open her locker, shaking her head. “Or like, wait 45 minutes until class let out and you wouldn’t have to skip to see each other?”

“Well,” The high pitched squeak of Natalie replied. Without turning her head, she knew that she was wearing a smug lip on her face, ‘fuck me’ eyes still wide and trained on Steve. “When you have a guy like Steve, you better make the most of your time. Right, sweetheart?” Steve waved her off. His voice was bored as he replied. “She’s right. You should get back to Chemistry.” “It’s Home Ec,” She amended, shrugging her shoulders. “But I’ll let that slide until lunchtime, baby.” She blew him a sticky, sloppy kiss from her hand before hopping off down the hallway, and out of sight as Emma rummaged through her locker, looking for her copy of Macbeth.

“God, I can not thank you enough, Henderson,” Steve murmured, picking his shirt up to wipe away the lip gloss smears and spit across his face. His foul face tried to hastily swipe his face clean, then going to arrange the rest of his outfit. “I wasn’t sure if I could make it another five minutes with her on me.”

“But you wanted to date her,” Emma pointed out in a monotone voice.

His brown eyes were narrowed as he hastily sputtered out his words. “But, I just, I didn’t know she was so, so-”

“Clingy?” Emma suggested as she tossed her lunch inside the locker. “Attached? Bonded?”

“When you say it like that,” Steve began, a sheepish grin beginning to grow on his face. “It kinda makes me sound like a bad person.”

For a mere second, the girl pulled her head out of her locker to stare back at him, eyebrow raised. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to say, idiot.”

Steve pinned his eyebrows down, crossing his arms as he leaned against the lockers, glaring right at Emma with a sour expression on his face. “I’m not a bad person, Henderson. I went out on a date with her, right?”

She tried not to laugh as she shook her head in her locker. It was rich to think that the ‘king of the school’ didn’t realize how much of a complete dick he had grown to become. If you were breathing, had boobs, decent looks, and you attended any school in Hawkins, Steve Harrington was sure to pass through your radar at one point. He was the biggest womanizer in school, known for going on one or two dates with a girl before calling it quits. There was never a real period of time that she knew he was single, and since his longest relationship only lasted about a week and a half, it was safe to say he was known quite well by many girls in Hawkins. It was somewhat disturbing how many girls came to Emma to vent about the boy, as if they wanted her to do something about it. It was even more disturbing to think of the boy that they always complained about was trying to have a real conversation with her about girls and the ‘woes of dating a bad kisser’.

“I would bet ten dollars you didn’t plan for that relationship to go anywhere else than where it did after the first date,” She smirked. “You’ve got a serious track record to not notice that.”

Emma slammed her locker shut, and began walking down the hall, Steve hot on her trail. “You’re kidding me, right? I’ve never led a girl to think I actually wanted a relationship with her!”

The teenaged girl slowed her sneakers, pausing in her walk to turn back and almost laugh at the pathetic popular boy behind her. “Really?”

“Really!” Steve exclaimed, shaking his head. He looked like a mother, arms crossed and an skeptical look on his face. “I have never done that!”

“Harrington, you do that with every girl you’ve ever gotten to fall under your spell,” Emma said slowly, making sure that the boy understood every word he said. “Almost every single girl you’ve dated has found me, three days after you tell her that you’re ‘not looking to get tied down’ in tears because they thought that just maybe, this time they could be the one for the magnificent, magical Steve Harrington.”

His face was stony, eyes still connected with Emma. He was more of a statue in the middle of the hallway than a teenage boy, being told that the legacy he’s led throughout his entire high school career was really tormenting the young girls around him with his dating habits. Words were trying to find their way to his mouth as the girl sighed and began to walk farther down the hall towards Calculus. She was tired of entertaining Steve and trying to make him see his mistakes when he was supposed to be in whatever class he had.

She didn’t look back as she left the boy, deep in thought, and turned her attention to her academics instead of the perils of a socially blinded popular boy.

TAG LIST: @lillie-writes @luv2reade16 @kararanae23

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whimsically-ominously-auspice · 3 years

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Now with 20 babies and only keeping one...

The rest had to be premie in order for their size to make my size look to be only one.

Due to my brain damage and other receding factors.

Furthermore the 3 musketeers all had boys. And Deborah only wanting to be the special killed the other two boys.

Thus she was the only benefiting of a boy.

Which she then murdered as she had no one to talk about the oddness of the reality of who the boy was.

So she self defeated herself

And i had her banned from being around any baby in the hospital as the other two boys had died and she was the only one signed in to the ICU/premie ward aside from Matt Hagan.

Whom was signed in almost 24/7 aside to eat and shower.

He was taken out for a day and a half but slept in my room. Just in case, for his own self provisions. By his own means he removed himself for him and the babies to get rest and Robby had taken over. Eating outside the nursery and not in the cafeteria, unlike Matt, and only leaving 2x per day to shower.

Then to which they took 12 hour shifts.

Then to which Matt decided and convinced 7 others based upon no reality that it was safest to separate the babies.

Thus causing deaths of two.

Which is a fixated equation of mathematics in order to establish future parental guidelines and who can and cannot concieve to give birth which is not currently in effect as more explorations are being continued.

However this is the first basics of the ability to give birth, establishments.

Based upon maturity.

Thus in 6 weeks or so, the time period for elimination of such parenthood on this planet will then be in effect for eternity as so described by Paul.

As his Grace did enable the miracle of the 20 virgins to be allowed in the first place.

And in order to sustain such virginity the 3 boys were live birth through the vaginal canal with their womb sacs intact thus as transporting the babies to ensure no penis touched any part of a vagina during birth.

Some (6) girls were also covered as well to prevent any occurrence of lesbian fears. Including William's Myles. Upon their faces and around their lower torsos.

As per Paul's request as he didn't see why a child couldn't be born in such a manner.

And the child could breathe through the womb sac thus creating it a safe procedure for a child to be born with a facial covering and sustain life. Even if the doctor or parent was an idiot and didn't remove it in a timely fashion.

One female child did perish 6 hours after birth and that was myself.

Mainly for fun but also to escort the others to the premie ward. As my upper (adult) body was deceased upon my birth. And mechanical manipulations were done to birth the rest, some birthing themselves by "crawling" until Myles was born.

Dying halfway through mine and reviving halfway through hers.

We fashioned the dead original parents to Zulululu the ability to enter my adult physical form in order to provide the mechanical manipulations.

Even deceased males were able to provide the manipulations in order to birth their own child.

As per my honourable request. As I kept feeling something was missing... And Tree guessed as to what it May be. After my Soul Mate had knew what it was. And so told him. And asked if it shall be done. Then tree played a guessing game with me to ensure it was that that left me feeling hollow in the creation.

As i kept thinking and questioning about the original parents and their permission wasn't enough to satisfy me.

I wanted them 100% in it.

The premie was convenience all the way to the fact that they would have their own nursery.

Then for them slowly to arrive to the house.

But there was no house nor was one ready that one knew of and my apartment was too small.

And thus the ability to compromise and work out small conveniences and inconvenient and the ability to "tell time" or work to defeat a small purpose in the kindness of greater good was dismissed.

Thus enabling Paul to enact the Maturity and not Compromise manifesto for future pregnancy and parenthood.

The hospital failure did not fall upon Matt but Dorothy whom was hostile and angry about the fact her male was dead. Whom enlisted Georgia's help to create the failure.

And hid the location of the house.

Dorothy did not want to sit in meetings and gave all the information to Georgia whom then gave the information to Denise.

Denise will go straight to Hell for her crimes.

Alex's failure was in telling Bob not about the information we needed after asking me How he could help and I gave him extract instructions on what information and how to obtain it and from who. As Bob also had the information, or access.

And So punishment then falls upon Alex's shoulders as he is the only one whom knew the truth about the other children then created a multi-adult household. Which also included rspists and murderers of children. As well as failure to retrieve the information and/or allow others to find whom had the information.

The house is in Houston. And he's taken others and lived there himself via greed. He is much like his stepmother, Deborah. Who is his father's cousin.

Due to this, his relocation of my daughter will relinquish in poverty for himself and inability to use the waters for healing purposes for himself.

There are 4 corners with which only a cot and a bucket reside. He can only have one bucket to which he must decide to potty in or carry clean water to the residence. And his wife shall decide if it when she shall reside in the same corner with him or not. At which time the cot will then become a bed, the bucket a sink.

I warned him not to fuck with me.

The 2nd and 3rd will then be Dorothy and then Jethro's. The 4th remaining empty as Barbara is now dead and shall not return to this Earth but instead Hell.

But will now turn into a pool hall with bollards, a home theater and other areas of fun interest. For the community as request by me, for invitations only.

My daughter will remain in the house at all other times and her tower will become into a protected state when she chooses to obtain permenant or temporary residence. As Asked isn't allowed with tg3 walls for a period of 10 years after I obtain occupancy of the interior fortress.

Community areas will be allowable for only 4 planets residence. Juno. Ax. Earth. Echinacea.

All others "will be towed"

Dorothy lacks indivisibilty and Jethro maturity.

The c tallest tower will be Declans, whom retains the finish of Golden Boy, if you've seen him. And Paul requested ground floor of the tallest tower which remians in the centre.

Matt can remain in the house due to his honesty however only part time for the first 7 years. The rest of the time offsight. To which this is 12 hours per day. But his residence is poor, with no indoor plumbing. Except for in the children's suite to which he's not allowed. But the mother is.

Jesse can pick sink or toilet but not both. He wipes shit on the walls anyway.

Declan says to pick sink because you can wah your hands. But if he's fortunate enough to receive a toilet with tank, he can wash his hands in the tank.

Snoop whom can reside in an outer residence, same.

The rest have normal indoor plumbing.

Deborah may live in any other housing. And she will receive less than accommodations no matter her choice. Magic, son. And if within 3 miles of any of my residences she will receive horrific physical pain for herself. That is the law.

Jean, will receive top honors for his recovery and safety work and his ability to work well under pressure.

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reddiesporcle · 4 years

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Faceclaim Sporcle Quiz FAQ/Director’s Commentary

Hello, I’m back to once again post a Sporcle quiz for a day on Twitter before I disappear off into the ether (the ether is locking my Twitter account again). How are you? Great. Let’s get the questions that I always see pop up whenever I post a quiz out of way first.

Where are your quizzes?

Faceclaims Quiz Media Properties That Have Been the Basis of SMAU Quiz Friends Episode Title as SMAU Quizzes: Round 1 | Round 2 | Round 3 | Round 4

Do you have a list of references for the quizzes used?

The quizzes used in my summary quizzes are all I have. Most of them are abandoned or deleted, but the remnant links can be found here. Feel free to hum a Sarah McLachlan song as you hum through them. The more recent quizzes were done in a fun and fancy free style where I kept track of no specifics because I am here for a good time, not a useful time. Sorry to not be of any help!

Why are your quizzes not publicly available?

If the quizzes aren’t private, then that means they are available to the Sprocle community at large to be verified or added to the random play a quiz generator. The idea of a fifty-year old film bro trying to guess all the Oscar Best Picture winners he knows in ten minutes and then being faced with a Reddie SMAU quiz makes me want to roll down a hill in anguish. The idea of a thirty-year old film bro deciding to fact check my Reddie SMAU quizzes makes me want to roll down seven hills in anguish. So they remain private. You can find them in the links on this page. As noted above!

Why didn’t you include ______ faceclaim?

There are many reasons for why a certain faceclaim wasn’t included. I may not have seen it because it was further into the narrative of a story or I have not read it recently enough to have the faceclaim stick in my memory! I may not have recognized it from the tiny contact picture and couldn’t easily find a tweet verifying the name! He was a Connor Bowers faceclaim and every blonde white guy in Hollywood looks exactly the same to me and no, I do not have the technology to reverse google image search a tiny contact photo. There are over-200 faceclaims in here. There are probably more. I don’t get paid for this, please cut me some slack.

Your quiz has a typo!

As previously stated, I do not get paid for this. Please cut me some slack.

Director’s Commentary

I understand nobody cares about this part, so I put the process behind making this quiz behind a cut. It also has the answers. It’s basically my evil villain monologuing moment.

Every quiz I have ever made in life is basically the result of my life philosophy which is the wolfpupy tweet, “well it made me laugh and that’s the most important thing, my feelings”. The Friends Episode Title summary quizzes started because I think it’s hilarious that the original title for Turtle Creek was Still Waters (it is always Still Waters to me). The “Has This Media Property Been the Basis of a Reddie AU Tweet?” quiz started because I was bewildered at just how many different, incredibly varying media properties had inspired SMAUs. I don’t have a wide audience so the only person I’m trying to impress is myself and so, I make myself laugh.

Anyway, the Faceclaim Quiz idea first came about when I was doing those summary quizzes and I realized just how many Patty faceclaims there were. I thought that a fun quiz would be “Match the Patty Faceclaim to the SMAU”, but that would have taken too much work while I was also doing the summary quizzes. By the time I finished those, the idea had become too unwieldy. There were too many Patty faceclaims to match to too many SMAUs.

Eventually, the idea transferred to a simpler concept which was “What if I made a faceclaim quiz and every answer was correct except one?” The idea seemed so stupid, and I figured nobody would seriously play it and it would make me laugh. And that’s what is important! So that’s what I set out to do.

The trouble is that coming up with only one wrong answer was giving me hives because I knew if that faceclaim was used in a SMAU someone would be dying to point it out to me. So my brain started this new game of “Name an actor, name how they could possibly be used in a SMAU.” Any relatively famous male actor who I didn’t remember in a SMAU became a potential Connor Bowers. Leonardo DiCaprio. Brad Pitt. Chris Evans. Chris Pratt. Chris Hemsworth. Chris Messina. Chris Hayes from MSNBC. Other famous people in the last 30 years also got weirdly cast in things. Oh, Jennifer Aniston could be a Maggie Tozier. Oh, Kelsey Grammer could be a Pennywise. Will Smith probably worked with Richie on a movie. Taylor Swift may have worked with Eddie on his taxes. I was not going to risk it.

Then I considered doing Old Hollywood actors, but my brain went “Katharine Hepburn played Patty in an On Golden Pond SMAU!” and that was the end of that. I also considered just being completely obvious and doing like Abraham Lincoln because nobody was going to cast him as Wentworth Tozier, probably, but that wasn’t funny to me. And that was what was important my feelings.

In the end, the answer came somewhere in between. Currently, I am working my way through the AFI 100 Movie’s list, which has been a horrible calvacade of one examination of toxic masculinity after another. One of the most excruciating films to sit through was called Intolerance: Love’s Struggle Throughout the Ages. It is a three-hour silent film by the director of Birth of a Nation where he argues that the NAACP saying that Birth of a Nation was racist was intolerant. The same kind of intolerance that got Jesus killed. It’s terrible. But the director of Birth of a Nation invented crane shots, so it had to make the AFI list, I guess. I’m getting distracted though.

Intolerance was terrible, but it was old, obscure and poorly restored which meant that nobody was going to use it as the source of faceclaims for anything. Even more amusing was that all the characters didn’t really have names but vague descriptions. “Princess Beloved”, “The Kindly Officer”, etc. etc. So in a bit of amusing myself I made a decision. I decided to group the characters into general groups.

ACTUAL CAST MEMBERS OF AN IT PROJECT PATTY REDDIE NON-MYRA LOVE INTERESTS OF VARYING DEGREES FAKE REDDIE SIBLINGS/COUSINS/WHATEVER GEORGIES LOSER DADS LOSER MOMS MYRA AUDRA/KAY MOVIE-BASED MALE VILLAINS/PENNYWISE MISCELLEANOUS

Then I organized the faceclaims into the highest category they fit into on that list (that I was aware of). So for example, let’s say there was a SMAU where Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson was the faceclaim of Rob Tozier, Richie’s brother. Rob also works with Eddie at Justice clothing store, and he and Eddie hook up in an supply closet one time. In this scenario, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson would fit into the miscellaneous category (as Eddie’s coworker), and the fake siblings category (as Richie’s brother). However, he would be put into the love interest section based upon hooking up with Eddie in that supply closet. Good for him! Good for organization!

Once everyone was organized, I put the wrong answers in based on their character names in Intolerance. They are as follows:

Mae Marsh plays “The Dear One”, she was placed as the wrong answer in the Patty section. Robert Harron plays “The Boy”, and he was the wrong answer in the Love Interests section. Spottiswoode Aitken plays “Brown Eyes’ Father”, and he went with the Loser Dads. Lillian Gish plays “The Eternal Motherhood”, and unsurprisingly, she went with the Loser Moms. Miriam Cooper plays “The Friendless One”, and she goes with the Myras. Finally, my personal favorite, Walter Long plays “The Musketeer of the Slums” and he goes with the villains.

If anyone wants to see where the groups start and end that may be able to help you out. It’s kind of ridiculous, but I found it funny! And, well, that’s the important thing. It made me laugh.

Happy playing.

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